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About Literature / Artist G. DeykeGermany Recent Activity
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For love of a human man, a weasel turned herself into a woman.
She locked away her fierceness, blunted her teeth against the edges of rocks. She shed her soft sleek fur, leaving only cold white naked skin behind. When there was nothing left of her, when she was no more than a fading memory of something that had, once, been a weasel, she went to the man she loved and begged him – as she had once before, on the day when she learned to despise herself, to rake her claws through fur and skin and let the blood shine through – to be with her, to marry her, to love her.
Now that she was a weasel no longer, the man (quite graciously, she thought) agreed.
She did not miss being a weasel, very much. The man loved her, just as he had promised. He called her his ermine, because she was beautiful (he said), and because she was pure: like snow, he said, like a funeral lily. She was not a stoat – she had never been a stoat – but all the same she was proud to be his ermine.
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 9 8
Mature content
Mother :icongdeyke:GDeyke 51 62
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.
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 7 15
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 7 16
“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
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 5 13
The boat… (→1)
The sea… (→2)

…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)

…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 16 28
“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 5 12
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 16 21
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 5 11
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 3 18
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?
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 4 18
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 10 15
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.
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 8 12
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 5 9
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 3 8
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,”
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 11 11


Artist by Sadir89 Artist :iconsadir89:Sadir89 121 20 Devotion VII - Love is Lost by BenGoodspeed Devotion VII - Love is Lost :iconbengoodspeed:BenGoodspeed 523 51
And the winners are...
JessaMar has announced the winners of her recently concluded Multicultural Fairy Tales contest. If you're curious, you can read all of the entries here. Right now, it gives me great pleasure to feature the winners.
by :iconsaartha:
A retelling of Jack and Beanstalk (English) and Ghatotkacha, from the Mahabharata (Hindu).
In addition, here are a few of my favorites from her gallery:
by :iconerlenmeyerkat:
A retelling of The Boy who Drew Cats (Japanese) and Bambi, by Felix Salten (Austrian).
ErlenmeyerKat has a wonderful little section in their gallery containing 10 word stories.
Here are a few
:iconyouinventedme:YouInventedMe 2 5
Multicultural Fairy Tales: RESULTS
The judges have deliberated and the results are in.  Thank you to everyone who entered - it helped make my birthday a happy one.  You can read all entries here.  I was especially pleased to see so many people making use of lesser-known tales.
With no further ado, here are the winners of my Multicultural Fairy Tales contest.
by :iconsaartha:
A retelling of Jack and Beanstalk (English) and Ghatotkacha, from the Mahabharata (Hindu).
saartha will win:
1500 points from Points Pool
Critique from LiliWrites
Custom poem or flash fiction from JessaMar
Journal features from LiliWrites, JessaMar, YouInventedMe, Asahi-Taichou, and Charlene-Art
:iconjessamar:JessaMar 33 9
Elements - Earth by Loulin Elements - Earth :iconloulin:Loulin 16 5 Dancing in the dark by tboersner Dancing in the dark :icontboersner:tboersner 44 3 A Compendium of Witches ~ Owl by NatasaIlincic A Compendium of Witches ~ Owl :iconnatasailincic:NatasaIlincic 192 9 Rainbow Fairy by Hellobaby Rainbow Fairy :iconhellobaby:Hellobaby 925 29 Janus by Maquenda Janus :iconmaquenda:Maquenda 857 11 LED exposed by drachenmagier LED exposed :icondrachenmagier:drachenmagier 2,320 74
Multicultural Fairy Tales lit contest
:bulletred: CONTEST CLOSED.  CHECK OUT THE WINNERS!  Multicultural Fairy Tales: RESULTS. :bulletred:
My birthday approaches, and in order to celebrate with my DeviantArt community (that means you) I am hosting a contest (that means cool prizes) for my favorite kind of story: fairy tale retellings.  To make it a bit more challenging, a multicultural component has been added - which I hope will inspire/require you to delve into a bit of research and discover folk stories that you weren't already familiar with.  If you're up for helping put a smile on my face, read on for the details.
Write a story which combines and retells/adapts two different fairy tales or folk stories from two different cultures.
What classifies a fairy tale / folk story?
I am going with a reasonably loose definition of thi
:iconjessamar:JessaMar 53 51
The Dark Lament by Svartya The Dark Lament :iconsvartya:Svartya 186 41
DD Discussion on January 12
You remembered to include engaging more with Daily Deviations in your New Year's resolutions, right?  It's never too late - and our DD Discussion chats for literature are a great place to start!
All are invited to the CRLiterature chat room this Saturday, January 12 from 10am-1pm Pacific Time - see what that is in your time zone here.  Keep reading to the bottom of this journal for the short list of December literature DDs that will be discussed - you may notice there are more than usual, which is why the chat has been extended to three hours instead of two.  Feel free to come for any part of that time that you like.
We believe that discussion with friends and peers is a valuable part of how a reader experience
:iconjessamar:JessaMar 7 2
Mini pumpkins curio vials by Curionomicon Mini pumpkins curio vials :iconcurionomicon:Curionomicon 116 21
These bad days
It doesn’t matter that you lived it. It doesn’t matter how much you remember or who takes your side. Or even that you just fucking know it.
When his friends say it was your fault, that you deserved it, you believe them. You can’t stop their accusations from burrowing deep under your skin. You feel like you’re bleeding out over and over and over.
There’s nothing left inside, but still, there is. Somehow. It pours out in dark, stupid waves of emotion you don’t want to feel. It colors everything, anything it touches.
And he wins.
:iconnamelessshe:NamelessShe 3 7
December 2018 Lit DD Roundup
Congrats to all who got one! Keep reading, suggesting, and supporting each other!
Features by BeccaJS
Features by akrasiel
        He'll Take it Black by SubjugatedSandwich  to live on pluto by blanketings  Mother by GDeyke
Features by squanpie
This is Not a Poem About Suicide, But- by LightsOnAmara  Neither Light Nor Dark by Tarnisis  The Attic (Additions I) by shadesmaclean  beautiful weeds by wordturner  Something Queer, in your Bed, again by silkshines
Features by BlackBowfin
river.flow by comatose-comet  The Legend of the Seagulls by barefootliam  The Details Of Cursing by All-My-Darkness  Metta by Tiger--eyes  saturated by afterspring  Rabbiting by disquietly  Diagnosis by TanyaSimpson
Features by JessaMar
Lucy Farr by ThornyEnglishRose  Little Skip and the Angel by LadyLincoln  FFM 2018: Fated by The-Inkling  lightkeeping by LadyBitterblue  :
:iconjessamar:JessaMar 33 13
You may recall that in the past year or so I've hinted at some vague things like "a writing gig", "researching Arab/Arabic/Arabian folklore and fairy tale structure" (but apparently still never quite managing to figure out when which adjective applies), "a big project", or "combining elements of metal with elements of traditional Arab/Arabic/Arabian folk music" (seriously it's a good thing I never had to actually use that adjective in the course of this work).

You may, but probably you don't, because frankly a few vague hints now and then aren't, probably, particularly memorable. But that's okay, because now I can tell you all about it!

(In fact, I could have told you all about it for a while! I'm kind of late getting this journal out.)

A Dream of Burning Sand came out on Monday.

A Dream of Burning Sand is not my project, but I was involved as sounding board, playtester, proofreader, auxiliary writer (not of the actual script or story, but my FlashFictionMonth skills were certainly put to good use), and (collaboratively) composer (which is pretty much to say: I wrote most of the drum parts).

This means that I'm way too close to this game to give it anything resembling an objective review, but don't feel enough ownership of it to be able to show it off as A Thing That I Made. This makes it a little difficult to describe or recommend! I will say that I liked it; that it does some really cool things with lighting (both as an aesthetic thing and as a mechanic); that I was involved on the making-it-better level, which means that despite not being, you know, the actual person doing anything, I still did my best to make it good; and that if you enjoy my writing, this game affords you the opportunity to find (and read, and collect) numerous stories of mine which you won't find anywhere else.

A Dream of Burning Sand is a story-driven, exploration-based action-adventure-platformer game with several endings, plenty of sidequests, and more secrets than you will ever find. It's for sale on here and on Steam here. If this sounds like the sort of thing you might enjoy, please do give it a look!


G. Deyke
Artist | Literature
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.


Add a Comment:
Loulin Featured By Owner 1 day ago  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Many thanks for :+fav:ing. Glad you liked my little older version of the Earth element. :)
TheWarOfTheRing Featured By Owner Dec 23, 2018  Student Writer
Happy birthday!
GDeyke Featured By Owner Dec 24, 2018   Writer
Thank you!
WindySilver Featured By Owner Dec 23, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday, GDeyke! I hope you have a fantastic day! kawaii cake 
GDeyke Featured By Owner Dec 23, 2018   Writer
Thank you! F2U || Candle Bullet 
WindySilver Featured By Owner Dec 25, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome and Merry Christmas1 ^^
LiliWrites Featured By Owner Dec 22, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Happy early birthday!! :hug: I hope it is a wonderful one. 
GDeyke Featured By Owner Dec 23, 2018   Writer
Thank you! :hug:
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
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!
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