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August 2018 Lit DD Roundup

Sun Sep 2, 2018, 1:23 PM

Congrats to all who got one! Keep reading, suggesting, and supporting each other!


Features by BeccaJS

FFM 2018, Day 26: A Quiet Moment by the SeaA Quiet Moment by the Sea
Sometimes there are once-in-a-lifetime chances. Now is not that time.
So long have I been sitting here on the rocky crags of the jetty, reaching its stony arm into the waves of Cape Cod Bay. The seagulls mourn overhead, with the occasional sonorous clapping of waves against the rocks, and the water sprays its salty remnants into the sea breeze that comes breathing through my hair and twitching the wrinkles in my wet clothes. The foggy clouds, far in the distance and in the middle distance, swift along a thermal current of wind.
I sit here with my thoughts, weighing down my mind with a dusty coal-like jacket smothering the deeper recesses of my brain with indifference and, in absurd contrast, a sharp pain laden with wistfulness.
I cannot abide the laws of this world. How it pushes the many unique individuals into believing they are none more than a means to an end. How sad it is that the leaders of our world must overlook an area of perfect beauty, and then bur
Disco InfernoEver since his death, Richard Nixon's crystallised heart had remained in the possession of the CIA – until tonight. The full strength of the Demonic Neutralization Coalition smashed into the CIA convoy: hulking armoured veetolls blocked the neon skyway ahead, while military and civilian cabs alike crashed in from all angles.
Bootsy flicked her electric blue hair out of her eyes, gritted her teeth, and joined the fray, slamming her Charger up alongside a sleek black sedan. Before they could even trade paint, the sinister mirrored windows burst outwards in a hail of bullets, but the car was already empty. Going toe to toe with the suits was suicide, and the objective was elsewhere – she landed with a roll on the roof of the transport at the centre of the convoy, and cut her way through. Rain and bullets pelted the hull around her as she hurled herself into the belly of the beast.
Bootsy was outfitted with what had, until recently, been state-of-the-art military biointegrated
StaticThe house came cheap; I wasn’t surprised. It was getting on in years, not run down yet but probably requiring a little more attention than it did in its youth. And then, of course, there were the rumors.
Haunted, said some of the locals.
No such thing, argued others, but even they admitted that there had been a mysterious disappearance a couple decades ago, and the new owners hadn’t been able to keep a renter there for more than half a year since. The most recent tenants lasted barely a month before hightailing it out without a backwards glance.
“What form does this ‘haunting’ take?” I asked my cashier as I picked up some groceries.
“I’ve never seen it,” he admitted, “but I’ve heard it’s mostly things like flickering lights, things turning themselves on or off, that sort of stuff.”
“Faulty wiring,” said an older man standing behind me in the line, “mark my words. It was built long enough ago
LepusiaI had heard all sorts of rumors about the path of candles. Some said it would never run out of fire. Others muttered it would turn blue on new moons in order to show the way to another world, much more terrifying than ours. Was that what spirits did? Did they turn the lights blue when no one was looking?
Father gripped my arm a bit tighter as we approached the old and rusty cottage that gently leaned by the river, at the end of the tiny dots of wax and light. Another few steps through a seemingly abandoned vegetable garden and we were at the door. A full moon gleamed high in the sky, spreading a sickening tone on us, pushing back the shadows into the dark corners we wisely chose to ignore. Who knew, perhaps the dark void could swallow our souls if we dared to look into it?
A thick veil of fingers stretched to touch upon the wooden surface as it bent in order to knock, yet wasn't allowed to. The handle spun violently as the gate slammed open, wide open.
"I was expecting you."
I did not

What Hips Are Meant ForMy sister wishes for a little girl to stand next to her son,
to have my eyes & her curiosity. Sometimes I want to see
how far my car can go before turning around all because
I miss someone or some thing. She says I have hips meant
for birthing, which I could take offense to if she were
anyone else. If I were anyone else, the idea of being
someone’s every morning might be everything. Nothing
might be what I’ll grow used to. My sister holds her belly,
her son inside, waiting for his life to begin; I look at maps,
wondering where I’d feel at home & if I’ll ever learn
my way around regrets. She worries about shelter & how
to keep my nephew safe; I spend too much time thinking
about tattoos & how they’ll keep me in my skin. My sister
is content planning her life for others; I become too distracted
trying to escape the boundaries I belong to. She knows
I have a name for a daughter & the eyes to watch her grow;
I cannot be sure I have a place for one.
his drawl defines him like a diary:
“did I hear y'all talkin' 'bout goin' to a bar?”
I, having hollered across the road to a colleague
about that very topic, cannot deny it
he sports a giant cowboy hat and tight jeans
Air Force tattoos peek out of his shirt
from around fighting biceps
but his voice has a timber I recognize:
I too have been lonely, far from home
and wishing I wasn't drinking alone, so
I invite him to join our night out
he opens up unprompted like a penitent
guilty and ready for the confessional:
he's in Salt Lake City for business
that job is stressful, so he's taken
a Soviet era social anxiety drug
which, apparently, keeps him from shutting up
thus, we get more than half his life story:
deployments and a big ugly divorce
employments and lots of late night intercourse
the latter backed up with triple-x selfie evidence
he has no problem showing us again and again
but as he scrolls through his conquests
his voice picks up that same timbre
Customer Service HaikusI.
Frustrated parent,
thanks for saying it's not my fault
while you yell at me.
"Cooking is for girls."
"What do you have that's not too gay?"
This is misandry.
Mission accomplished:
Met world's most entitled mom.
Now I can rest in peace.
No, I think you're wrong.
Who is your manager?
Let me talk to him.
Not twiddling my thumbs,
but tapping out syllables.
Haikus keep me sane.
Sad Poem (Written on a Monday)Inside our house, surrounded
by plants, that soft light—
the weakest shade
of gray and waiting
to turn it all yellow.
I have slept and slept
for days now,
unfolding into small
moments, only to see you
orbiting our mattress,
waiting for some type of
human reaction, any
kind of movement.
I need a haircut.
I need to shave and go
to work and forget these
days of no control
where I’m a child again,
reeling and afraid that it
will always be this way,
that I will always be in my room,
alone until someone calls me down
for supper, and then a bath,
some prime time television,
and straight to bed.
I am locked outside of something
beautiful, the walls made of ash,
three inches thick and growing,
the reincarnated remains
of my same old fears.


Features by akrasiel

PlansThis is an unsteady step
The bones melt into marrow and the soft flabby skin
Skid down like a pulled down pant leg to the ankle
and would not stop shivering, like a stuttering heart.
The knees touch the concrete, followed by the hands,
The forehead kneels. There is granite, sand
Discarded trash littered at the round edge of sight,
the dusty darkness of the night covering the scene
Like a cold, wintry blanket, smelling of mothballs
I would not raise my head, nor close my eyelids,
Not let out a whimper or a yell
I chew down the cold, polluted air with focused tension
Praying to settle, and breathed still.
Woe to Jester: The Lonely RoadIt wasn’t them. It was me. Through the donning of a mask, I had made myself into the living equivalent of uncharted territory, a thing that was meant to be explored and claimed. As habit would ensure, they had stamped their name across my forehead without knowing anything about me. So like a child grown to adolescence, it was only natural for me to question the ways of being that had been prescribed to me. When I left, there was no ill will. It wasn’t a grand gesture of spite or trying to teach them a lesson. I simply gathered my meager belongings into a sack and stole away in the early hours of the morning without any intent of returning to that first town that had called me Jester.
It was absurd to miss them. By the time the sun was fully in the sky, and the marketeers would be just starting to lay out their wares in the market square, and the early risers emerging with baskets on their arm and coins jangling in their pouches, and the children trundling off to school with
Old Rain Man"Creepy man! Creepy man! Old rain man! Old rain man!" my young voice echoed through the humid air.
The target of these anxious yells was old rain man. He was a sort of village curiosity, the local boogeyman.
The origin of his name was as simple as it gets: the old man was only seen when it rained. Then he'd leave his house, cross the yard and sit down on the bench in front of it. Once the rain stopped, he'd vanish back inside.
We kids had our share of stories and ideas about him. Some said he was the one who made it rain. Others said he wanted to flood the village. There were even a few who thought he was secretly an amphibian who needed the rain to survive.
In our village, there were never so much as a few days without heavy rain. Considering that, those stories seemed more than a bit plausible to us kids.
We kids often dared each other to provoke him or go near him. This time it had been my turn to yell at him to see if he'd come after me. In the end, though, the old man did nothing.
not quite, but wings it is not quite winter
  yet it has been,
 in another sense
 for far too long
  since he left 
 the snow of those
 events never
  changed. the
 walked in bare feet,
  and found
 half a chrysalis 
 and now, with
  cold caterpillar
 feet still
 this winter
  butterfly wings
 have come
 at perhaps
  the wrong season
 but here we
 are with strange
  changes and
 dammit flapping
 for flying with
   cold feet
 is just the way

trnsncTo think of you as ornamental,
A flower cut and rinsed in the tub sink
Dressed in ribboned plastic
Sold by eager hands
To present —statue of decay
Frayed firework, muted memory
Of spring— a new and boundless
Afterlife, moonbeam,
Slicing through the wet grass,
Blade spine finding little justice
In those calloused fingers, another
Winered symphony, wince and sing, you
Withered heart, your skin
Still drawing blood.
Kiss Me, I'm ModifiedLuoxuan “Helix” Fang is trying to enjoy himself. And somehow, he's succeeding.
Leaning against a wall in the swankiest hotel in Taipei, champagne flute in hand, he watches the big wigs rubbing shoulders together. A holographic banner looms over the stage: BioSynGen Awards Ceremony. The letters have a Mandarin translation underneath.
To his left is one of the leading scientists in medical research. To his right, a couple who won a Nobel Peace Prize last year. Far in front of him, that woman wrote three books on the ethics of bio-genetics.
Suzette Ruan, his not-quite girlfriend, stands next to him with a plate of dim sum and a pair of red chopsticks. Tonight, she's looking very lovely (not unusual) in a black cheongsam dress with polka dot trimming. And she's wearing perfume too, which is a shame. She smells nice enough all on her own.
Suddenly, Suzette pokes his arm and whispers in hushed excitement. “Look, look! It's Hsui Liang!”
Helix turns and sees a woman pas
FFM 2018 27: Tomatoes for FlowersIn our first months together, we swallowed each other whole. Sucked each other’s fingers like chicken bones, squeezed each other’s flesh like peaches, waiting for juice to flow from each other’s crevices. Now I can’t even lay a hand over her breast without her scooting to the other end of the bed. She’s running a temperature. A sheen of sweat clings to her lips when I kiss her goodbye.
She tells me to bring home tomatoes, the freshest I can find. I’ve only just closed the bamboo fence behind me when I spy the juiciest tomatoes I’ve ever seen, just on the other side of the dirt road. I walk closer to turn one over in my palm when a voice as melodic as rain calls down to me.
A girl combing her long black hair smiles down at me from the second-floor window of the Torres residence. When I ask whether she’s a guest there, she tells me she’s a niece who’s watching over their house, as they’re staying in a city hospital while M
Something's Missing: an anthologyThere are fifteen poems
ever since I was young,
I knew something was missing.
something wasn't… there
in my mind and in my body.
while others giggled through health class
and joked about the other gender's body parts,
I sat through it and tuned it all out.
it didn't interest me at all.
people tell me,
"you're just young;
it's understandable that you don't feel anything.
you just gotta meet
the right person,"
but I tell them,
"nothing will make me feel
something I wasn't born feeling,"
is it some genetic thing?
is it a mistake, a glitch in the code?
is it just completely random?
something I'm born with,
something assigned as birth?
or is everyone right...?
have I really not found the right person?
am I really too young to know?
I hear it so often,
it's hard to not doubt...
I touch my stomach,
wondering why I feel no heat,
no tingling, no pleasure.
my hand drifts lower
but still, nothing.
and nothing

Consequence of Being HumanAnnelise was a beautiful name, and she happened to be a beautiful woman. When she picked herself up into the black van that had stopped at her Compound to pick her up, Esper sat up against the other side, grasping to the arm rest with two small hands. His eyes were wide as Annelise adjusted herself in the seat beside him, tugging at the shorts she wore to cover more of her leg, frowning down at the v-cut of the shirt she wore. It was a warm day in the west, and even under the air conditioning of the van, her pale skin glistened with faint perspiration.
She caught Esper staring as she put on the seatbelt, and a uniformed attendant rolled the door closed beside her. Her eyes were blue, set into a face dotted with faint freckles and framed by ringlets of blonde hair. Just looking at her set Esper’s heart astutter in his chest, and the teen was quick to look away -- right down at his feet.
“... what’re you doing that for? You some kind of human or something?” Anneli


Features by squanpie

Soulful Brewing, Filled With Spirits [FFM 23 2018]Dude, during their interviewing process, everything seemed normal—when asked about the process of making spirits, I described my usual steps: dissolve the sugar, add in the molasses… but when they took me back to the factory area, I couldn’t help but notice that the sugar was red instead of white and the molasses had a foul stench to it. I mean, like, right off the bat, man, something seemed off.
I was about to address this, but then the interviewer—he was an older guy, with tufts of hair and a beak-like nose—gestured and said, “Welcome to Soulful Brewing, where we are are full of spirit! Now, I’ll show you around, and after we’re done interviewing all our candidates, I’ll be in touch with your results.”
It was something to that extent. Anyways, he proceeds to tell me (are you gonna finish those chips? Thanks!) that I need to put on these special glasses, and this weird purple coat. So I put on the gear and stuff, figuring it&
Your Fiction is Not Fiction  I open my eyes and look around at my pitch black bedroom. I thought I heard something. A voice. 
  Yep, no denying it now. Someone else is in my room. I just hope it's not who I think it is. 
  “Yeah, can one of you just turn on the lights?”
  Ramsey’s the one who hits the switch. At least, I think it's him. After all, he looks just like my mind’s eye imagines him, right down to his green and brown eyes. Really, all the faces around the room look exactly how I think they should look except for Syrena, who's currently posing as a not-so-inconspicuous armchair. But she can shapeshift, so she doesn't count. 
  I rub my eyes to clear the sleep from them. “What's this about? Actually, how do any of you exist?”
  Eric rolls his eyes from the corner, looking perfectly like the average teenage delinquent, when really, he’s anything but average. “Now you know how I feel.
Siren SongI want the crook of your shoulder
to bury myself in, breathe deep
until I feel anxiety uncoil inside of me,
melt in the waters of love so deep
fear couldn't step a foot inside without
sighing sweetly for that smell on your skin,
the one that does me in, damns me
and saves me all in the same breath,
I am blessed and never knew
the name of God except the one I thank
for crossing your path with mine,
that divine movement evident only
in the day I looked across the room,
met your eyes and cried, I found you.

Deja VuThese minutes are intangible
       strings of moments, all perfectly aligned
       no left, no right, just looking back and moving forward
And I think that I have lived this before
       the same moment of a different life
       along another timeline with its own endpoint
But we are all stardust, rotating through the heavens
       crushed between the ghosts of ourselves
       no left, no right, just parallel races to the finish
Pale NegativeYou are the pale negative
Of new people in the make
I dug my heels and lingered west
But my mind was as flat as an ocean
Her heart was ever brighter,
And lost as the needle in it,
Its glint lost again in itself
She will never ever be found
There was a song about us,
Now all there is, is sleep
With a bottle across your chest,
Grass scorched from neglect
It’s beginning to rain tears,
All you have are your naked hands
and a breathing disorder -
When was the last time you lived
I stare at the water,
Linger where it is warm,
I feed us to the ducks,
I still shiver over you
At night, I write poetry,
You sneak between the lines,
But love is not there,
Not in my mouth or dreams
I may have misplaced things -
I must have lost us on the way
The roads have been demolished,
And the signs, altered
a message to the stigmaa burden on society;
this is who i am and
it's burnt into my mind because
you shoved it there.
violent, aggressive, dangerous.
mental illness is not a synonym for murderer.
this lie claws its way into the mind of schizophrenics and
i wonder if the media is going to move on from psychosis;
how soon will my hands be coated crimson because
trust me,
these hands aren't going anywhere near you and
neither are theirs.
incompetent, lazy, unintelligent.
i am standing here with
a past full of A's to prove to you how wrong you are but
others aren't so lucky and some days i'm not so lucky;
we can achieve but
imagine if you lived with a life that loved to drop  
nails in your mind and weights on your back and
that's not even the half of it but
if every breath hurts and
every failure feels like you're stumbling to your execution then
i wouldn't blame you for escaping from reality either.
selfish, petty, attention-seeking.
thank-you for calling me by the names i call myself


Features by BlackBowfin

My Soul is in the Kitchen FloorIt's not so much
that I was fond of the tile
or even that a bit of my heart
was tied into the floorboards,
and it wasn't the dust
or the noise that scared
the cats
But I find it hard to change
things, little
or large
Twenty-five years
don't die easily
even when you don't care
what removing each nail means,
or the color scheme, or the fixtures
Or anything, really
It's the house we were married in;
tell me
the tile doesn't matter,
or the cabinets,
or the color of the room
moonshore                   the moonlight
                      the katydid’s hoof
              and cracks the glassy reach
                              of sound
                       and feeds the birds
                           an empty blue
                       and speaks
              into the sleepers’ mouths
                     the moonlight
     summer the ghost of the girl who tried so desperately to hang me
with her own hair comes to me again, her wrists bound tight - a victorian
nightgown, the stretch of the fabric a taste on my teeth i can never forget
( contact allergy: the glue from band-aids sends my skin spitting and hot,
the new cells, grown inside as i was, finally brave enough to fight for air )
she blinks her heavy lashes at me and pulls the heat tight around my ribs.
they bend like a ship on the shore under the slime of greenrot and time,
but they do not break. they are not drowned, not her claim to rebuild with.
( if a ship sinks, and you replace it, is the sea not your right? if the
ground on land and sea claw for you, and you grow stronger at the ankle
for stepping through their claws each time, is that not your right? )
refrain of my first hospitalisation: i will be dead before i need glasses,
i will be blind in both of my eyes before a predisposition to short-term
anything lays claim on me. this is funnier
The End of the World    It is dark at the end of the world. The sun went out a long time ago, but it leaves us a view of the stars that no one on Earth ever got.
    It is cold at the end of the world. Without the sun, there is no light to warm us up. There are no breezes, though, so a heavy coat is usually enough.
    Sometimes I stand at the edge and watch little crumbles of dirt tumble into the void. I wonder if the end is receding, if when I come back tomorrow it will be a little closer than it was yesterday. I never tried to measure it, though. If it was receding, then it was receding. There was nothing I could do but watch.
    People came to look at it. Until they saw it for themselves they refused to believe it existed. Most of them left with an explanation that helped them forget what they saw. This was something they were not ready to know.
    Some people came to see it, and they never left. One man I knew had been here for ages. “It

the efficiency of silencewaves curl up, drying
as they fly, to be made wet again
in the mouth of what transpires
each wave gone rise
into the paper-birch
and shake its silent sentience.
i see now you are above me,
these chords are not the chords
of slow cicadas
and that all is your soliloquy
and secret; this earth will
keep it while the black-caps come
with eggshells in their mouths
and hide from every starving eye,
all trace of love, and vow.
Blue AnnouncementPrepare for an announcement of what I see and feel
Yeah, get ready, I'm announcing what I see and feel
Jazz is riding shotgun, blues is at the wheel
I saw the king on television, he is not kind or wise
Oh, the king on television -- he is not kind or wise
But what I always notice is the fear in his eyes
The singers and the dancers have all left the stage
Yes, the singers and the dancers have all left the stage
And the riot cops are jonesing for a mob to engage
You tell me that you're ready, I've been ready since five
Well, you tell me that you're ready, I've been ready since five
And now we should be going before the agents arrive
I am going to light a candle to the saint of lost things
I am going to light a candle to the saint of lost things
I know she may not help me but I like the way she sings
Absolute Power."Are you aware, Anin?"
"Do you recognise my voice?"
"Yes. You are Practitioner..."
"Go on."
"Practitioner Sunnis."
"That's right. And why can't you..."
"I know. It's ok, I'm not looking for you, but your voice is my guide."
"Good, Anin. Very good. Where are you? Describe your surroundings, please."
"Ok. I'm... Oh! I'm here in the park, again... Practitioner?"
"Sorry, Anin. I'm here. You recognise your surroundings?"
"Yes. I've been here before... Haven't I?"
"What do you see, Anin?"
"Er, there are... the tall things either side of me..."
"They're trees, Anin."
"Yes! Trees. And seats made out of the same... similar material as the trees. It's difficult to see clearly, as if through a haze or mist..."
"It is fog, Anin. What are you feeling?"
"Chilly... Its... winter. Damn! This is the same place I keep coming back to, isn't it?"
"You have... visited this place before, yes."
"Focus, please, Anin. We have a job to do."
"Sorry. Wait! There's something... moving, up ahead."
Tasting NotesI think I detect my dads left handed
broken-in baseball glove- black leather
from 1944 when he was drafted by the Yankee
farm team in upstate NY.
          Playing summer baseball in the street, I’d
press it to my nose,
          breathe it in-
          feel comforted and wait for a fly ball.
I swear I smell tobacco
from my grandfathers camel non filters
as I buried my face into his brown woolen
sweater, as he hugged me hello
           stepping out of his car in 1960-
Driving all the way from New Jersey to see us.
And there it is.. ripe black raspberries from my
cousins backyard.
           Scraggily bushes along the fence.
           Our thumbs and lips stained blue and
thorn bloody.
Finally and forever I am aware of the figs on my
from that winter kiss standing in the kitchen-

We are always looking for more DD suggestions. Self suggestions welcome! Check out each CV's profile for their suggestion guidelines, and help us spread the word about great lit on DA!

Thanks to all our suggesters this month; you guys are a great help :love:


Skin by Dan Leveille

Which are you... and why? Don't be shy. Represent your kind w/ a comment! 

17 deviants said Cat
8 deviants said Dog
4 deviants said Other- Please Explain
2 deviants said CatDog
2 deviants said Mineral
1 deviant said HotDog
1 deviant said Fish
1 deviant said Lizard
No deviants said Rodent
No deviants said Hybrid- Please Explain


My teeth have teeth
Artist | Literature
United States
My influences are mostly stuck in 20th Century poetry: Cummings, Eliot, Roethke.... and if anyone's not read Audre Lorde, do it NOW (surprising and sad how it still reads like today's current events).

Favorite visual style of art: Art Nouveau vs Modern

About Me:

I'm a proud dad and husband and a bit of a work-aholic.

I was brought up in a very restrictive/conservative Christian denomination. I use art as a recovery device. :)

I quit writing for several years, but have returned to it thanks to dA.

Recurring themes (though maybe not directly referenced) - space, time, ghosts, reincarnation, religion, addiction, abuse, recovery, childhood, parenthood and the patterns and repeating cycles of all of the above.

I believe that good writing should actually take your breath away or at least throw it off track for a second.

Stizzamps and Flair


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Moonbeams Featured By Owner Sep 28, 2018
Thank you so much for the Daily Deviation.   It is quite an honor.  
(1 Reply)
Memnalar Featured By Owner Sep 20, 2018
All Hallow's Tales hasn't even launched yet, and you've already gone above and beyond the call of duty to help out. Thanks, man. Five jack o'lanterns!
(1 Reply)
beeswingblue Featured By Owner Sep 19, 2018   Writer
(1 Reply)
Barosus Featured By Owner Edited Sep 19, 2018   Writer
Oh wow.  I always get really awed when one of the really respected members of the DA lit community notices my work.  It means a ton to me that you favorited Faol Sidhe!  Thank you so much!Love 
(1 Reply)
xlntwtch Featured By Owner Sep 15, 2018   Writer
Thanks for faving the slinky slinky, and Reasons... :iconredsparklesplz:
(1 Reply)
RicksCafe Featured By Owner Sep 10, 2018
Thanks very much for the fave ! :)
(1 Reply)
neurotype Featured By Owner Sep 9, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
Ha I locked the thread. Welcome to the downside of mod powers.

Anyway, I believe the word you're looking for is "networking" d:
gallindz Featured By Owner Sep 2, 2018
hello, thank you so much for the DD on my poem Tasting Notes. I really appreciate it and I've been away for awhile and just found out today. I was so nicely surprised. 
I am so honored. And dA is the best! :heart:
thanks again,
(1 Reply)
RichardLeach Featured By Owner Aug 24, 2018   Traditional Artist
Hi! Thanks most kindly for making my poem a daily deviation today. A very pleasant surprise!
(1 Reply)
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