August Literature Daily Deviations
Summer is over- or did it even begin? Literature has had a month of great DDs and that is thanks to some of the wonderful suggestions we have been receiving!
projecteducate started August with a really informative week about understanding Daily Deviations and how they work/decided etc. It’s worth checking out:
PE Daily Deviation Week RoundupHello all,
this week has been absolutely amazing! Just WOW! It has been a beautiful sight to see the community so engaged and I sincerely hope that this week has been educational for the community at large. With that said I'd like to give a huge thank you to everyone who helped make this week possible as well as to anyone who got involved in any shape form or fashion, be it by leaving comments, giving feedback, or even just reading the articles and taking all the information in. This has been a wonderful experience and it couldn't have happened without all of YOU! Thank you!
Welcome to DD Week - Astralseed
Community Voices: What is a Daily Deviation? - Aeirmid
Daily Deviations: The Myth and the Legend - Aeirmid
And without further ado, here is a collection of the wonderful writings we featured in August!
Featured by BeccaJS
Queen of GeeksUnexpected end to kidnapping case
[Sunnyvale Tribune 23 Feb 2007]
In an unexpected development, police have closed the case against the kidnapper of twenty year old Nicole Cantrip. 'The circumstances surrounding Miss Cantrip's alleged disappearance have become clearer,' Inspector Frank Jones told the Tribune, 'and it's come to light that the case was filed in error. There is no evidence whatsoever that a kidnapping took place.' Since Cantrip is over eighteen, the applicable missing person legislation is almost non-existent, much to the dismay of her mother.
'Something has gone horribly wrong when a girl can be forced away from her family by people she's never met and it's called normal,' said a tearful May Cantrip. 'Nix wouldn't have abandoned us, dropped out of all her classes and left everything behind unless
somebody was forcing her.' Mrs. Cantrip claims that her home was invaded by several men who demanded that her daughter accompany them to what she describes as 'a k
Exhume and InhaleI have tasted God, he tasted of sweet wine
and sandalwood, the deep forest you lay down
in the moss and twigs, scattered like finger-bones,
your spine ripped out, curved like a bow.
I couldn't find your heart, trembling
against the opened cage of your ribs,
under the gently speaking rustle,
leaves unfurling, the dance of sunlight
slinking between your vertebrae:
piccolo skims and birchskin shaves.
I fled. Your right shoulder blade beckoned still,
unfolding like the slow feathers of a wing,
your wrist flung out, palm
up, gasped my name,
but I could not stay, only
strained your skin with oleander tea,
drifted, drifted with the tumbleweed,
the blind breath of the wind:
and I had tasted God, birdsong on my tongue,
soaring, sweeping, sweet and free.
Poetry IsPoetry is the work of a poet; he is a craftsman like any other. The notion that anybody can be a poet is ridiculous. It's the same as saying anybody can be a mason: it takes rigorous devotion and effort. Anybody can be inspired, but not anybody can write a functioning poem-- that is a, a work of rhythmic literature that uses figurative language to convey something. That "something" is what makes poetry so difficult. A poem taps into some aspect of the plethora of human emotion, making poetry universal regardless of time or place; that is, even if a reader can't identify with the situation or time period of the poet, the underlying sentiment will tap into something already within the reader. Poetry is that machine which artfully created to make the reader confront that which always existed. :thumb302109403:
There is a smell like rosemary and tobacco at night so I write. Ink? I prefer the eye straining array of electroluminescence. Letters sparking into stale black and forming complex thought
Death of a Love.She hadn't moved from her window in over a day.
Watching for the impossible was something that she was content to do. It injected her with the faint hope that she might witness some of those precious memories once again. Maybe his decrepit old Clio, chugging along and spluttering to a grumbling stop right outside her house, or maybe the bicycle that he sometimes opted for instead, signalling his arrival with the ringing of a bell. It economised on both petrol and his nerves, he had always told her with a smile.
His smiles were gems. She had always watched in rapt fascination when his lips pulled back and curled upwards, his left cheek dimpling slightly when it lifted more than the other. His teeth were slightly crooked, the front two pushed back a little further than his incisors, always immaculately clean.
She shook her head, dragging her eyes from the unchanging scene outside. No point in dwelling on what was past, she tried to tell herself. Nothing can be done. He's gone.
Yet, in a
London Bridge is Falling DownIt is one o'clock
And I have been playing Jenga
For two years, eight months
Twenty-three days, four hours
And approximately fifteen
I slide books from their slots
One by one, the teetering tower
Becoming more teetering
And less towering.
All the poetry books are gone,
Stored underneath my bed,
Because I love reading them at
Three thirty in the afternoon,
When everyone is doing something
One day the wall of books
Will topple to the ground,
Onto my ashen carpet, for yesterday
The apocalypse had taken place
While I was washing dishes.
I guess I missed it, but luckily
The book tower is still standing,
And it will continue to be there
Until I make a mistake and all of it
Erupts into a shower of finality and fire and
Crayon ChildYounger Me,
still fending off nightmares
with plastic swords
and MONSTER-B-GONE lights.
I was rarely gentle with you.
I blistered our hands with blacktop;
I choked our sandals with mulch.
Yet you remained untouched
by life's failures and faults,
only marred on the skin
by two frolic-scars.
There are seven chin stitches
from a monkey bar mishap,
and three on your upper lip
from disgruntled floor tiles.
But that never halted
your gap-toothed grins.
I fought by your side
during alien invasions,
where broccoli trees swayed
beneath the 1% lowfat Milky Way.
We cradled dirt-stained snowmen
that lasted weeks in the freezer,
and attacked Georgia fireflies
with an army of pickle jars.
I cried when we ate mushrooms
(they taste of rubber and disease)
but gorged on knock-knock jokes
(the cheesier, the better).
We scrawled our promises in crayon
because chalk never stayed;
we composed cricket concertos
and moonbeam serenades.
Dear muse... this is farewell,
we have waltzed the years away.
MANIC PIXIE DREAM GIRL"Excuse me," I ducked under the bus stop. "You do know the bus doesn't run this late, right?"
The girl standing there turned to look at me. She was wearing a bright yellow raincoat with equally bright purple galoshes, and kept her umbrella open despite having the bus stop's roof to keep her dry.
"Really?" She tried to check her watch, but didn't seem to have that much luck in pulling her sleeve back with the giant plastic bag in her hand and the giant purple umbrella in her other. I checked mine for her.
"Not down here, at least. The closest line still running is over on Fifth and Market." I took a second to warm my hands. "That's like a good thirty minute walk."
It was really coming down. It'd been raining for three days now, and it didn't look like it was going to let up any time soon.
"In this weather?" She made a face that looked like she was thinking extra hard, but didn't really like the fact that she had to.
"Did you need to get somewhere?" I asked.
"Just home," she said. "Not t
Into the LightThe moon tonight is, simply, a white note:thumb292897703:
adrift, spinning. It patiently tracks the breeze
on the edge of genesis, floating in motes
of static. On the surface, it seems at ease.
Light filters through oak leaves and coats
its thrall, the summer heat's slow weave
through the river's margins to the throat
of the sea. Small fish leap up to tease
the moon tonight. Simply, this white note
rotates its body like thread released
from reel, alters its position over nodes
On my way homeBy Romy Lara
I exit the studio, sighing at the sight of the sun quietly hiding behind the trees and buildings. Turn to the right and keep walking. Cars are passing by, people in black suits get out from the nearest buildings; none of them care about their surroundings. I lift up my head and notice in big steel-letters the name of the company that owns that peculiar orange building in the corner of the street. It's the first time I see it. The sky is painted blue with some dabs of gray, just as if somehow the color of the concrete street had been absorbed by the clouds.
Behind me there's a couple discussing something about a house. She doesn't sound happy. And he's just getting mad. She shouts and speeds up, him trying to catch up with her, but it's futile. She is a very good runner despite her heels. The man glances at me. I toy with the white cable of my earphones and pretend I didn't hear anything. I pass him. He just stands there. I wonder what would he do now. But I have no time to
Featured by thorns
FFM15: Agent BlackI make a HALO jump from 35,000 feet out of a Raptor, and the ground looks no different from the sky. Above and below, there is only an endless expanse of black, dotted with tiny twinkles of light. Gravity shows me which way is down, and I keep an eye on my altimeter as unseen Brazilian soil rushes up towards me. I'd feel more comfortable about the whole thing if I could at least see the ground, but I dare not risk detection.:thumb312203604:
I dive in alone, with no traditional weapons to speak of aside from my knife and wits. I'm this country's worst nightmare, and I don't need guns or bombs. My technology is older than all of that, and far superior. Even the Nazis looked into it, though their work pales in comparison to what the American government has done with the idea in the past decade.
The altimeter begins to blink in the dark, and I deploy my parachute, drifting slowly down into the barren fields of the Amazon wasteland.
The nature of inspirationWhen was the last time
You heard the word 'erection' in poetry?
I think it was a while back
Between the pages
I mean "humans" don't even play
Or just rise to the thirteen year old tree-house
Inside us all
Where politeness is a foul facade
And we aren't afraid of our fingers.
We prioritise the silhouettes
The way pressing pen into paper
Made us so
And out of
Inspiration isn't a pretty, pristine river...
And it's about time we became
It's about time
We let up
And let it
Burn us up
Turn us on
Turn us up
Our wobbly bits
Into an aphrodisiac
So if there's any P.S.
Poetry can teach you
the word 'erection'.
The Old ManThe old man's wife passed away a few days ago.
He wouldn't like me writing it that waya fan of George Carlin, the thought of 'soft words' tended to make him cringe; he would have preferred 'died' or 'shuffled off her mortal coil.' He said that second one plenty. Every few years now one of his friends shuffles off their mortal coil, and he always says it that way when he finds their name in the obituary. 'I guess Mavis shuffled off her mortal coil. A shame. She had the most wonderful rack as a young woman. Would've married her if I hadn't met Julia.'
The old man wasn't exactly politically correct. Come to think of it, he was a bit of a cantankerous old bastard with every imaginable bigotrythe 'self-hating Jew' routine was something he carried out very well. But with him you could always see the humor in his words. I once watched in awe as he told a joke that had the word 'nigger' in it at least three times to a table full of black men who could remember when they heard that
Night Chaser02:37am 22nd July - depart from London by commercial jet, business class. :thumb312590813:
00:53am 22nd July - arrive in New York an acceptable 7 minutes behind schedule.
Slaying an archangel is hard work. It takes a great deal of study, picking your mark, separating fact from legend, learning your target's tells and vulnerabilities. Even if you succeed, and when I tore Gabriel's crystal heart from his open chest I became one of the precious few who have, there is still the matter of retribution. Angels never forget the death of one of their own, and a legion of these creatures now wait to descend and deliver their vengeance. My only sanctuary is the night. Angels can only exist in light of the sun and as such I owe my continued existence to the wonders of modern technology, which is capable of sending man half way around the globe faster than the approach of the morning sunrise.
I chase the night. Or at least I chase the processed luminance of airports and rail terminals.
I've got an hour and
SuperimposeHe doesn't look like a gymnast. He's all button down shirts and frazzled grey hair framing wire spectacles, a picture perfect professorial archetype down to the very tips of his frayed shoelaces. But he was a gymnast once, or so he tells us, and I believe him because he smiles like he knows something while he's chatting before class.
It's strange to see that image superimposed over the current one the distinguished professor in pressed khaki slacks and a jacket, worn brown loafers exuding a faintly courteous manner (you can always tell them by their shoes), and a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand versus the athletic kid who went to college for a semester and grew nine inches too tall to keep doing what he loved so he took up a tennis racquet instead. Gymnasts don't wear suit jackets; no steel mill worker has such manicured nails. But the images are all there, flickering just under the surface and bubbling up again when he's recounting stories about his days in Pi
Mother always said that raindrops were the tears of the people of the heavens, crying because someone great had died.
"Shouldn't it always be raining, then?" I had asked when I first heard this.
"No, only when someone great has died. They might not have known they were great, society might not have known they were great, but the tears still flow," she patiently explained to me.
"Did it rain when Ben-jay-mine Franklin died?" I questioned.
"Yes, it rained when Ben-jay-mine Franklin died," Mother answered.
I waited a moment, then ventured again, "Did it rain when Thomas Ed-son died?"
"Yes, it rained when Thomas Ed-son died."
"Did it rain when Rosey Parks died?"
"Yes, it rained when Rosey Parks died."
"Did it rain when Father died?"
My mother paused for a second, looking down at her clasped hands in her lap. She finally replied, "Your father isn't dead yet." With that, she got up and put me down for a nap, beginning dinner.
It did not rain the d
blasphemyin a Heaven no grander than a forest, He sat upon a throne weaved of ivy and wild roses; it was there He first touched the Universe, and it was there He came to find the thriving rock He named earth. absent lives were flitting about in oceans deep and dark, and He sought to make company, entertainment, using His vast power to manipulate these beings' path. they grew until they resembled His intention, but before the first man thought of the savannah's cruelty or had any thought besides instinct, angels were birthed of the Lord's passing thoughts
He would breathe and exhale
lights that cuddled like sweet birds,
tucked close for warmth in a simple
nest draped with their brothers' down
feathers and cotton brought up from earth;
amongst the soft glow of each new ideal
came a pop like an ember cracking this one
was weakly lit and stuttered its first words
in a hoarse chirp (humanity, love) before it came
to still with its slumbering companions.
in the evening, the lights
Talking to YourselfWind drove snow over the trees with such force they seemed to step into the distance. The whiteness in the air covered everything until it was as faded as an old scent trail after a rainstorm. The snow was already deep enough to suck in a man’s leg past the knee if he wasn’t wearing snowshoes, but the figure trudging through it was no longer a man.
Prankster wendigo had given up on snowshoes long ago in favor of simpler footwear. The straps challenged the clumsy fingers of his stolen human body, and he could never figure out how to move in them without tripping. He lurched onward with the tenacity of a wolverine gnawing through an inch of deer skull to get the gooey treat in the center. The pain in his stomach howled to his feet. He gave little thought to their control. His mind was focused on making the most of sensory information diminished by the storm. Sounds and smells were difficult to pinpoint. He almost felt as if the wind were a rival, come to mask the trails of pr
Soul of a WriterI see a blank page, and I feel a spark inside my heart. The spark ignites my mind, raising its ever-glowing embers to a slowly building flame. The cold white blankness of the page angers me.
Wasted potential, that's what it is. Any space of white could be used. I stare into its emptiness and my mind begins to turn its gears. My hand itches for a pen.
I am a writer and my soul is fire. This page shall feel my flame.
I need to bring heat to the paper and that is what the words are. Hot. The black ink smolders on the white of the paper. The words charge from my mind, down my arm and on to the page.
They are the army of my soul, warriors of fire and ink. They enforce my will upon the cold of the paper; bringing the stories in my mind to life on the page, and the more ink on the page, the more fire for my mind. The warriors of words fight back the emptiness, charging into it and slashing away with flaming swords lighting the page aflame.
It is a soul-powered machine, constructing my linguis
2: the first questionThe first thing I noticed was the fez on her lap. I saw it as I scanned the tube for empty seats; a flash of red in the corner of my eye. It perched delicately on her thighs like a small, unassuming puppy that stared at passerby with large eyes, silently daring them to challenge its right to be there. I gaped at it; the train started forward with a jerk and I had to grab onto the metal pole in front of me to keep my balance. The ungainly motion of my body lurching forward caught the eye of the fez's owner; I saw her look up at me quickly, then duck her eyes down to her hands, which were diminutive and pale and folded neatly in her lap, just behind the fez. I sneezed loudly into the sleeve of my trench coat and she smiled. It was for barely an instant—and, it was probably an attack on my limbs and their length and the strangeness with which they moved—but it was enough to cause an unfamiliar tug inside me, not unlike the movement of the train.
Machine-Part SincerityShe once said to me,
"Come. You be a gear right here,
and I'll be a pulley over there.
Together, we'll both obey
the lever's dream."
I lied to her when I said,
"I want nothing more."
epitaphin the end
when i'm almost gone
and all i've left
is a red lamp
and a ragged song
to pave my way
into the thunderstorm
let every raindrop murmur
i loved you and lost
nothing but emptiness
and the company
Our wonderful suggestors!
Again many thanks to EVERYONE who suggested DDs, but here are those whose suggested pieces
Tigger and Coconut Suggestion Guidlines
(Updated)DD suggestion guidelines!Hello all
Firstly, I would like to say I am truly grateful for every DD suggestion I receive. It makes me feel reassured that the pieces featured are community decisions, not just my own subjective thoughts and findings. There are millions of writings out there and I can’t see every single one. I rely on good spots of others in hope of continuing to share a variety of good quality and unique literature. Thank you to those who suggest and those who continue to make the time to share their findings.
I prefer 1 DD suggestion per note.
Please always try to tell me why you are suggesting this piece. A bit of enthusiasm from the suggester can help make me feel enthused about the piece too. Plus it helps add a description to the DD
What I look for in Daily Deviations
For those who know me as a writer, you will know I write
DD Suggestion GuidelinesLiterature Community Volunteers
BeccaJS | thorns
Part of being a Community Volunteer is featuring wonderful deviations as Daily Deviations, but the keyword is community. I need you guys, the community, to tell me what you like to read. Share your favorite stories and scribbles with the rest of the community by suggesting it for a feature. If you adored it, share it with us!
Send your suggestion link/thumbnail to me in a note with the subject "DD Suggestion" please! I encourage you to send multiple suggestions, but be sure to only send one per note. That way I won't get confused and can organize them.
It would be marvelous if you could tell me why you think the deviation should be featured. I want to feel your enthusiasm to I can get excited about the piece too!
Please note, I will thank you for the suggestion, but won't tell you if it will be featured beforehand. It's more fun wh