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About Literature / Artist G. DeykeGermany Group :iconlitconquistadores: LitConquistadores
 
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Literature
Mother
My mother ties my hands behind my back, so I can’t flap away my fear. I kick my legs instead, until she ties those too: then I rock the chair, as much I can, and push the fear out of my throat with my tongue. Ululu, ululululu… Then she slips something into my mouth, harsh rough cotton weave, the taste of textiles. The ropes itch on my skin, cutting tight, fraying tickling light touch, pain against the hairs on my ankles and wrists. I can’t stop it, can’t stop the feeling – only rock, and flex against the ropes, and cry dampened moans through the thick wrong textile feeling in my mouth. Curl my tongue away from it. Try not to touch.
“All right,” she says, sweet-voice, thick sticky syrup trickling down my ears, coating my bones with wrong. “There you go, all ready. I’m going to fix you now. I’m going to make everything all right.”
I’m not broken. I don’t want to be fixed, don’t need to – I ki
:iconGDeyke:GDeyke
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 3 1
Literature
Here be Monsters
The reading on Keelyx’ screen defies all probability.
There are no planets here, no stars. This is one of those deep stretches of space, never mapped in detail, marked on charts with here be monsters – but only because it’s empty, not worth the cost of exploration. Even interstellar traffic passes through here so rarely that Keelyx’ cargo of serum represents an entire system’s only hope against the Borna plague.
Still, somehow, there’s something out there. And it’s broadcasting an SOS.
Keelyx knows her duty. She knows that the lives of the Borna victims depend on her. She knows that unplanned detours are always dangerous – she’s alone, her fuel is limited, and no one will notice if she disappears – but the signal isn’t far, and the very thought of dying alone in the blackness of space is reason enough to respond. She twitches her claws against the pedals lined up before her feet, and the ship changes course.
There
:iconGDeyke:GDeyke
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 5 10
Literature
A Potion to Bind a Lover's Heart
Well, it’s my help you want, and it’s my help you’ll get; helping people is what I do. There’s the question of payment, of course – keep your coins, child: that’s not what I want. Give me a lock of your hair, seven of your breaths, your favourite memory of a summer day. Yes, thank you; that will do nicely. Of course I’ll help you. But if you want to bind his heart to yours, you must brew the potion yourself.
Begin with something he loves. A friend, a brother, a thing he keeps with him for comfort; a favourite scent, perhaps, a favourite song; something, however sweet or ugly, that brings him joy. Take it, and burn it, and grind it up into ash. Mix in bitterness and iron rust: that’ll make a chink in his cold shoulder, sure enough.
Spit three times into the ashes and blend it all into a paste. Leave it to simmer while you feed in the rest: his tears, his fears, a memory for each of his failures. What – you think it will taste bitter,
:iconGDeyke:GDeyke
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 5 11
Literature
Imitation
“Ooh, what’s that you’re wearing?”
Wind-seed raised a hand to the necklace he’d strung together the night before. “You like it?”
Blackthorn nodded, squinting at Wind-seed’s throat. “It’s, like – it reminds me of something, but –”
“It’s inspired by those necklaces the Neanderthals always wear.” He didn’t mean the strangers living in distant caves, but the second- and third-generation folk with heavy brows and big noses who lived clustered in the southwestern corner of the Cro-Magnon encampment. “Cool, huh?”
“Cool,” Blackthorn agreed, eyes tensed with thought.
-
Wind-seed wasn’t the only Cro-Magnon to wear one of the Neanderthal-ish necklaces – not anymore – but he was the first. Whether the thick-nosed woman knew that or whether she was just lucky was anyone’s guess.
“Those necklaces,” she said. “They’re not for you
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:icongdeyke:GDeyke 4 11
Literature
Ripples
The boat… (→1)
The sea… (→2)

1.
…passes smoothly through the waves, parting the ripples of moonlight on either side. The sea shimmers like silver: an endless trove of coins, intangible, out of reach.
The boatman watches the glints of silver, thinking of the coins he did not steal, and of the boat he did. He does not know where he is running to. He only knows that he is running.
A winding shadow follows alongside the boat under the waves.
He reaches for it… (→14)
He attacks it… (→7)
He flees it… (→3)

2.
…ripples with moonlight, and rising bubbles shimmer from the deep.
The man who swims through it is a shadow in the deep, long and undulant, his tail shimmering like silver. He watches the waves from below: a long wooden shape cuts through the fractured moonlight, rowing out from the shore.
He reaches for it… (→15)
He attacks… (→6)
He flees
:iconGDeyke:GDeyke
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 11 28
Literature
Lingering
“Stay with me. Please.”
She knows better – she should know better. She should be asking Dara to flee, to save herself at least, to live a long and happy life without her. Love demands it of her. So do her morals. But she can’t stop herself: here in the darkness, half-crushed already and bleeding more than she could survive, she can’t bear the thought of facing death alone.
A part of her hopes that Dara will ignore her dying pleas. But Dara lies down beside her, kissing her hair, fingers laced through mangled flesh.
They wait for the end together.
:iconGDeyke:GDeyke
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 5 12
Literature
Twelve Lilies, Eleven Ravens
I would have told my mother the truth that day: what I was, what I’d never be. But there was a sorrow in her deeper than mine, and when I asked her the reason she showed me a room where twelve coffins lay waiting: one for myself, and one for each of my brothers.
With a hand on her swollen belly, she told me: “If I bear a son, your father will build a thirteenth coffin. If I bear a daughter he will have the twelve of you killed, for she alone will inherit our kingdom.”
The words I’d been longing to speak died in my throat. The throne might have been mine, my father’s cruel whim averted – but what did that matter, if it came at the cost of my brothers’ lives?
-
We hid ourselves in the forest while my mother gave birth. When it was finished she hung a cloth from her window: red as blood, the colour of peril. Our sister was born a girl.
On pain of death, we could never return home.
We had no other way to go, and so we went deeper into the forest, h
:iconGDeyke:GDeyke
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 16 21
Literature
In the Shadow of the Moon
The dead gather beneath the dull red moon, watching, waiting.
Moonlight calls their restless bones to walk. Moonlight fills their empty ribs with strength. Moonlight shines into their eyeless sockets, burning through their silent dreams.
They wait, and watch, and hope for an ending.
-
The temple has lain abandoned in the forest for many years, but its altar is untouched by time, by wild growth.
This is the Temple of Ending.
The rituals were easy enough to find. The dagger, lifted from the belt of a priest, took some doing: Jaden loosened him with drinks and took it from his waist while they danced, and made himself scarce before the scorned cleric could call down a curse.
The waiting was worse. The moon’s strength is too great to darken it unless it is already in shadow. This night, this hour, is the best and only chance he will have.
And as for the sacrifice –
He took the child from the streets. No one will miss them: they have the gaunt and filthy look of an orphan, and w
:iconGDeyke:GDeyke
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 5 11
Literature
Devotion
The statue smiles at him when he feeds it. Its wooden eyes are cold, and ancient, and look on him with love.
He feeds his meals into the carven lips. Day by day he grows thinner; day by day the statue grows fatter. He hears it whispering to him in his sleep: Feed me, worship me, follow me. Give yourself to me. I’ll bring you to a place beyond the dark, and love you when you dare not hope for love.
They find him dead at its feet, head bowed in supplication, lips stretched back in a grimace of fear.
:iconGDeyke:GDeyke
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 2 18
Literature
Secret Weapon
Getting past the guards is easy. They’re watching a film instead of the CCTV: an animated donkey rises onto the screen, yelling, “I have a dragon and I’m not afraid to use it!” They laugh, and never notice the silent figure casually sauntering past.
Alyssa can’t resist waving at them as e passes. The screen catches a reflection of the movement, fingers flickering, but they never turn to look.
-
Getting past the head of security should be harder: she has military and martial arts training, ten years of bodyguard experience, enough scars and medals to decorate a palace. Alyssa came prepared with two forms of false ID, an arsenal of force grenades, an alibi, and a mountain of justified fear; but this is eir lucky day. She’s asleep over coffee and doughnuts, and Alyssa slips past her unnoticed.
-
“So you’ve found me.” He pulls a sleek metal rod from his sleeve. “Want me to try this out on you?”
“What is it?
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:icongdeyke:GDeyke 4 18
Literature
A Single Stolen Hour
Each night she comes with her sisters to the spinning-room, to spin with the women of the village. I sit beside her, when I can: I speak with her, and trade my stories for hers, and bask in her nearness like a cat before the hearth.
Her hands are strong and elegant, her hair long and fine. She smells of water, sweet and fresh and living, like the lake-scent that clings to my hair when I swim. Her smile is gentler than moonlight and more lovely than the sun.
She never tells me where she comes from, nor do her sisters speak of their home; but each night, when they hear the clock strike ten, they gather their spools and hurry home. Not a minute longer will they tarry – even when I beg her, in the dark behind the house, where the others cannot see my fingers on her lips, her hands entangled in my hair.
“Please,” I whisper, a breath against her ear. “Stay with me.”
Even as her fingers dance across my skin, she answers: “I cannot. It is forbidden me.
:iconGDeyke:GDeyke
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 10 15
Literature
45 Minutes
“We’re making inquiries as to the whereabouts of one Hakim Gomez. Sources have placed him in your company, Mr. Bennett. I don’t wish to name the nightclub in question.”
A bolt of ice shoots down Steven’s back, frozen lightning against his spine. His heart is thudding in his ears, his mouth too dry to bullshit an answer.
“We’ll give you forty-five minutes to consider your response. I trust you’ll make the right decision.” Click.
He lowers the phone from his ear, slowly, eyes fixed on the pile of dishes heaped beside the sink. They’ve been building up for far too long. They need washing. He can’t bring himself to move.
He isn’t sure how long it’s been when Hakim comes out of their bedroom, pulling a tight T-shirt over his mussy hair. When he sees Steven standing there, motionless and white-faced, he snaps awake: Steven can see him bracing himself, the sudden tension knotting in his chest.
“W
:iconGDeyke:GDeyke
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 7 12
Literature
The Shepherd's Flute
The melody comes to me in my dreams. It haunts my memories when I wake, so I take out my flute and set to learning it.
Where did I first hear it? My memories are filled with only water. Even the flute – golden as it is, and my only possession – is a mystery; but the melody suits it well. When I play it I think of moonlight and waves, and of yearning.
When I dream of the water, I think there is someone waiting for me.
When I raise the flute to my lips, I pray they’ll hear my song.
:iconGDeyke:GDeyke
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 5 9
Literature
Meltwater
The cracks in the ice have been widening, day by day. Maria sees it in Nejla’s eyes: there is a distance between them, now, a silence she cannot break, a hesitance in Nejla’s breath before she speaks. When Maria kisses her Nejla pulls away.
She doesn’t know where it came from, this distance. She doesn’t know how to stop herself careening forwards, sliding unstoppably towards a surface that can no longer hold her.
It isn’t a surprise when Nejla tells her goodbye.
She feels the crash of it just the same: the helpless fall, the ice-water flooding through her lungs.
:iconGDeyke:GDeyke
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 3 8
Literature
For a Night's Music
Wheat shines golden in the passing headlights. An occasional red glimmer lurks in the darkness they leave behind, but the driver’s eyes never stray from the road: until she sees the combine harvester, reaping and threshing and winnowing, a lightless silhouette under the full moon.
She brakes hard, more by instinct than design, and stares at the thing through her window. She can’t make out the driver: a wide-brimmed hat shelters them from the gleam of the night’s blackened sun. The combine is utterly silent as it moves.
Fear shivers down her spine. She floors the gas, tyres squealing, and flees from the spectre of something she’d hoped not to meet for many years.
-
How are all you motherfuckers doing tonight?!
The crowd roars. She stands before them in leather and corpse paint, feasting on the burning radiance of their euphoria. Behind her the double bass drums roll out a beat peppered with snare notes.
You know this one,”
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:icongdeyke:GDeyke 11 11
Literature
Bearskin
The bearskin is hot and heavy. Beneath it I am hair and sweat and fingernails, itching and bleeding, stinking with the filth of unwashed years. The people I pass recoil when they see me.
Good, I think. I recoiled from myself in the mirror long before my seven years began: there is a spiteful glee in my heart each time I see that they see me as I see myself.
But there is hope before me now, strong as silk, and I follow it grimly. Seven years I must wear this bearskin, seven years I must leave my nails and hair uncut, seven years I must go without washing – but at the end of it, so the man with the horse’s foot promised, I’ll have whatever I desire.
“You know what I want,” I told him.
In my pocket I carry half a broken ring, a promise within a promise. I find some comfort in its smooth curve, its raw jagged edges: touching it, I think of the woman who holds the other half. She loved me for myself, I think, for she met me as Bearskin. It cannot be my b
:iconGDeyke:GDeyke
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 6 9

Favourites

Literature
For the Love of No-fur
    So small, so scrawny, this man pup. His stubby legs, his tiny hands with no strength in his grip. All wrinkly skin and no fur in sight. Yet this warmth in my chest! My own pups – bold and strong – then him, so shy, so slight.
    But so bright. His wit a star for them all. No-fur and fur; pink, black, brown and tan; a right pack of scamps.
    The trash can? The work top? No high spot past his grasp. No child lock past his skill and my pups’ claws. Then tasty crumbs for all. The band of imps at play.
 
 
    Many months on. Most of my pups far from me in new lands with new folks now. Only black pup for me. Black pup, and no-fur. Still, we warm in my big plush bed, black pup, no-fur, and me. Then puppy class for black pup, potty class for both, and first words for no-fur – all steps on the way to new skills and fresh tests. They both strong. They both bright. My boys.
 
 
  &
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:iconsquanpie:squanpie 4 5
Literature
Thank You for Your Patience
    “We’re experiencing high call volume, please hold the line.”
    Time trickled through the hourglass to the strains of smooth jazz. Sands blown across the wasteland.
    “We apologise… the delay… Please hold.”
    Crackling static, cracked dry lips.
    “Please hold.”
    The phone hissed its message:
    “…soon as an operator… available… your call.”
    Clenched in bleached bone fingers.
:iconsquanpie:squanpie
:iconsquanpie:squanpie 2 5
Inktober 2018 - Day 13 by Sieskja Inktober 2018 - Day 13 :iconsieskja:Sieskja 202 5
Journal
The Last Photograph | a horror contest

Mrs-Durden and I would like to invite you to take part in a horror photography contest with a difference - the goal isn't to take the 'best' photo. The goal is to totally creep us out!
Instead of giving you a theme or a topic, we're giving you a story. The end of the story is the photo you take and submit to the contest.
We encourage you to dig around in the darkest depths of your imagination. If you're awesome at costume creating, monster making and effects make-up, that's great. If you're a super experienced horror photographer, that's great too. BUT...if you're none of those things, that's also great and you have just as much chance of winning!
Also, don't worry if you don't have a fancy camera, because shooting your contest entry on your phone will add to the authenticity of your photo and may work in your favour!
So, without further ado, here's how to take part.
[ the story ]
You're ou
:iconTanyaSimpson:TanyaSimpson
:icontanyasimpson:TanyaSimpson 42 32
Literature
Dear great grandma,
It's been almost three years, yet every time I pass your room downstairs I still half expect you to be there.
Your bed remains, as do the picture frames of family shots and my mother's maiden photograph. She said you've always liked her. Even before Dad thought of proposing, you had wanted to see them walk down the aisle and dreamed of attending your grandson's wedding. But once they were husband and wife, you had a different dream: you wanted to witness the child. And at eighty-five years of age, you heard your great granddaughter's first cry.
I think your dreams granted you strength, thai-thai, for when you dreamed to see me grow up, you saw it come true. I actually turned fifteen, you know, that day you were admitted to the hospital (and never came back).
Hospital visits weren't unusual, because you'd been coming and going several times before that last one. It was never anything serious - in the end you always came back home.
I honestly don't know if anyone had seen it comin
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:iconbookcrusher:bookcrusher 46 65
Blood of Amber by Manuela-M Blood of Amber :iconmanuela-m:Manuela-M 88 17
Literature
Recipe for Disaster
My Darling, Maris Piper, light of my life, apple of my earth, best beloved wife.
I hope this final letter finds you well…
~~~
    It had seemed like a simple job at the outset. A straight-forward, by-the-book operation. I collected our orders, and gathered the crew for briefing.
    “Onion? Good lad. You’re going in first – straight through the front door. It might get a bit dicey, but you’re a big lad; you can handle it.
    “Red Belle Pepper, I want you in next. I want you to get their attention any way you can – you’re the distraction. Keep peppering them with questions, or whatever it takes. Remember Onion is with you if you need back-up.
    “Your job is to cover for Chilli, Paprika and Cumin who will be the next to drop in. They’re seasoned veterans, and they know their role. Their arrival should spice things up a bit, but don’t let th
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:iconsquanpie:squanpie 6 10
Rebirth by Angelina-LG Rebirth :iconangelina-lg:Angelina-LG 96 10 Halloween kitties II by Ailinn-Lein Halloween kitties II :iconailinn-lein:Ailinn-Lein 743 24
Journal
Ducktober
Yes, you read that right. Ducktober!
For the uninitiated, that’s the deal I entered into with neurotype about this time last year – for this year’s inktober, I will draw ducks (since expanded to waterfowl in general) for every day, while neurotype has dinosaurs! If that’s not crazy enough, wait until you see what else is going on right now for the Halloween season…
But first up – obligatory photo time.

Meet Chip, the newest addition to my household. Yes folks, this is what happens when you win the free-buy-in poker tournament at your local LAN party and earn enough points to buy yourself a dinosaur!
Seriously. If more casinos paid out in plastic prehistoric creatures... well, I'd probably be broke by now.
FlashFictionMonth
Here we are, two months on in October, and I’ve finally been able to make good on my plan from August. That is, I’m finally reading through the backlog in my me
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:iconsquanpie:squanpie 8 12
Birth of The king (Sweet sleeping 2) by larijone Birth of The king (Sweet sleeping 2) :iconlarijone:larijone 2,001 352 Tyrannosaurus rex-2018 by arvalis Tyrannosaurus rex-2018 :iconarvalis:arvalis 3,018 344 Mother of Night, Pearl White by JillHoffman Mother of Night, Pearl White :iconjillhoffman:JillHoffman 164 30
Literature
The Damnation of Us All
The world looks at us through a screen
they sigh and roll their eyes and whisper:
politics, the damnation of us all
but we were something more once
men and women and children of laughter
of woven quilts, of stories, of tittering lullabies 
Of riddles and jokes and love ballads
our home was made of stone once
made of trees and archways
we had a chicken named Lulu
fresh eggs every breakfast
I used to go to school back then
my brothers' hand in mine, we swung our book bags
we played ridiculous children games
we laughed
we were children once
now we're numbers, runaways, refugees, homeless
our stone houses rubble, ash and dying fire
we were humans once, we were people 
now we're just politics, whispered
the damnation of us all.
:iconJimmieBee:JimmieBee
:iconjimmiebee:JimmieBee 44 18
Rusalka by Doberlady Rusalka :icondoberlady:Doberlady 123 18
Journal
All Hallow's Tales 2018 - Sympathy For the Devil
Devil I AM PROUD OF YOU, MORTALS! THE ENTRIES ARE ROLLING IN!Devil 
PROSE GALLERY   POETRY GALLERY
OCTOBER 23 IS APPROACHING. YOUR TIME IS FLEETING.


 This contest is generously sponsored by prize donors and:
:iconcrliterature: :iconcommunityrelations:
"'THE DEVIL MADE ME DO IT.' 
I have never made one of them do anything. Never.
They live their own tiny lives. I do not live their lives for them.
And then they die, and they come here
(having transgressed against what they believed to be right),
and expect us to fulfill their desire for pain and retribution. 
I don't make them come here."

― Neil Gaiman, The Sandman: Season of Mists
“O hum
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:iconmemnalar:Memnalar 67 71

Look what arrived in the post today:

beyonddreams
It exists!

My fifth Flash Fiction Month collection, Beyond Dreams, is out at last! It's a bit later than usual this year, because lots of things got in the way, but it's finally finished and I can finally wash my hands of it. Not that I'm not happy with it: I'm just sick of working on it.


beyond dreams cover small
Here you can admire the cover in greater detail. And also click through, if you want.

Beyond Dreams collects all my FFM stories from this year, in a conveniently portable and easy-to-read format. If this is something you want on your bookshelf, or constantly available, or as a gift for the fan of queer fairy tales among your kith and kin, you will definitely be interested. As with the last four of these, it is available in both print and electronic form; and as always, here's a convenient line-up where you can find them all (and also admire the thematically cohesive cover art):

borrowed strengthephemeronpalalgiachangeling cover smallbeyond dreams cover small

Thanks again to all of you: but especially to Teague-Drydan, joe-wright, and the anonymous challenger, without whom this collection might have turned out very differently.


deviantID

GDeyke
G. Deyke
Artist | Literature
Germany
G. Deyke is an indie author of games, novels, short stories, flash fiction, and the occasional poem or screenplay. They will write anything from humor to horror to fairy tales, but have a particular penchant for speculative fiction: especially (though not exclusively) fantasy. They currently reside in a small village in southern Germany.

Due to a tragic imbalance of their machismo-to-sense ratio, G. Deyke can never refuse a ridiculous challenge.

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconvigour-mortis:
vigour-mortis Featured By Owner Aug 12, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Welcome to FlashFictionLives! So happy to have you! I hope you can make time for the August prompt! <3
Reply
:icongdeyke:
GDeyke Featured By Owner Aug 12, 2018   Writer
I hope so too - I'm going on holiday in less than a week, so time's a bit tight, but hopefully I can still get something in!
Reply
:iconxlntwtch:
xlntwtch Featured By Owner Jul 7, 2018   Writer
Thanks for collecting :iconredsparklesplz:
Reply
:iconmqe-discord:
MQE-Discord Featured By Owner Edited Jul 2, 2018
I love your style of writing. You seem to choose careful snippets to your story and I would honestly love to see you do a small mini-series set in a universe of your making. :0

Best Regards,
BB
Reply
:icongdeyke:
GDeyke Featured By Owner Jul 4, 2018   Writer
Thank you so much! I have, in fact, done something similar, though it was unplanned enough that it doesn't stand up pacing-wise the way a planned mini-series would. Still, "The Gift", "For the World's More Full of Weeping", "The Silence of Death in a Vacuum", and "As They Feast" - all written for 2017's Flash Fiction Month - at least share a world. I might want to do more with that sometime, and/or something entirely different. I do love this mini-series idea.
Reply
:iconladylincoln:
LadyLincoln Featured By Owner Jun 25, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the return :+devwatch: dearheart, I appreciate the support!

With love,
:heart:
Reply
:icongdeyke:
GDeyke Featured By Owner Jun 26, 2018   Writer
Likewise. :heart:
Reply
:iconpennedinwhite:
PennedinWhite Featured By Owner Jun 22, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the watch! :hug: 
Reply
:icongdeyke:
GDeyke Featured By Owner Jun 22, 2018   Writer
You're very welcome. :)
Reply
:iconbaspunk:
baspunk Featured By Owner Jun 11, 2018
merci :)
Reply
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