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18. stars

s

18. stars

pretty, effervescent stars, hiding in them human hearts, hiding in them particular parts, lungs and livers, little bits and small affordable pieces. that's what's inside her. (mentally, not physically so--- for in that, she is like everyone else.) get her started and she will run a blood rhythm, an aperture of the human heart, carved in extra white blood cells, coated in the blue and purple paint of genius artists. an integral chamber of her insanity is the art with which she delivers her messages to earth. an integral participant in her greatness is the mental shakiness with which she clings to a reality formed of thoughts, a shadow of the

Li Soon

L

Li Soon

 Li Soon was her name, a girl with many talents and interests. She usually wrote stories, though. On paper, with charcoal or feather ink pens. She wrote stories of her friends and neighbors' antics, or different versions of her own life or the stories she heard from overseas. Often, they were a little depressing. Xander seemed like a beacon of light in the world; like the only place one could truly live in obscurity and peace. There wasn't even any starvation, although there was still hunger. Twins came here, when they existed, albinos, giants, midgets. Ascmadian witches who didn't want to live in the royal court (with all its cloak and

17. the beast

t

17. the beast

picking wildflowers, snipping roses, the small, wild ones that are less brilliant in color, selecting blades of bluer grass, greener, preserving them and putting them in vases, putting them on masks for the festival, the hundred-year anniversary of the day when the five stood against the one and killed it for the sake of the country (and a couple of others that are gone) the vases sit in every window, red and green remembrances of the human blood lost then, green for purity, a virtue thought to decide the fate of kings, and shake worlds. back then, when wild roses withered before maturity and one could not find the flowers, the beast lost it

16. for long after

f

16. for long after

pretty things, frozen pieces, ever, sun, long life, in the shadow of the neverending tower, wonders for one's complexion, the storms and snowstorms are. each of its teeth are a lifetime of worry, and inside its mouth is a bite that can crush bone, crush lead. but they never got around to guns, just other mechanisms of death. they never got around to capturing it, just its offspring, who die when maturing. sometimes it sleeps in the snowstorms, a blue and white offering of the gods of death in its wake, fur that feels like silk, according to one person, and a shadow that will live long after its gone, for fear any of its offspring make it.

15. forever, sun

f

15. forever, sun

a few hundred sleepy wildflowers all rely on each other for company, unwilling to imagine a life that's different from this. every single blade of grass is precious, and none of them have ever seen a human being, or a domesticated animal, acting unwary. a domesticated animal, acting unnatural. like a horse standing still for ages, waiting for someone to return. then sun rises and they all drink it in together. a thin spindly oak starts to rise from the grass. an inevitable push. a single green leaf sprouts. pink butterflies gather, and then fall away. the moon shifts into phases, falling in place. the flowers face the sun, unrestrained. som

14. itching, bleeding

i

14. itching, bleeding

itching, bleeding cold, decaying, blood, more blood, more full-bodied blood, part of the world, that this thing has made for itself since it left behind its human body. bones and all. all the weak tendons, snapped like strings. all the people, saying what the heck is this thing. turning in its innermost leg like a gristly chandelier it turns and surveys the world in a blinding array of fourteen colors all lighter than yellow. its eyes, slowly, lose their human pupils. now just facets of ruby and brimstone. its eyes snap down to its former child. a feeling of possession comes over it. then, screaming black pain, and it can see no longer. a mi

13. everlasting death

e

13. everlasting death

everlasting death, death in redemption rather than redemption in death---- that's what's to follow for the blonde one and her pale offspring, locked into a cycle of events eternal and neverending. eventually the series of warriors trained and monsters and half-monsters became a series of interlocking loops like a tangling chain, where people were killing monsters and people were killing each other, so there's no hope--- not for those inside the loops at least. a many-clawed, red-horned and shark-toothed beast claiming to have once been a woman named Sherryl bursts into the side of a church one day and slaughtered everyone inside. there's an

The Ghost of a Good Time

T

The Ghost of a Good Time

 Paleo sat on a sitting boulder of grey granite, overlooking the eastern sea. Sea, ocean, it all meant the same thing. When you were a singer, words became colors on a canvas, flexible tools. Beautiful, shale, surprise, wonderful, mystery, Opalescent, everlasting, cerulean, lovely--- Words were weapons, and those who had the artist in them, became the best of the singers. They could use words in a way that touched people--- and the stronger the effect, the better their songs shaped the world. Right now Paleo was silent. He only ever sang in his cabin. He could feel the desire to sing rising up in him, but ignored it for the most part,

The Journey II

T

The Journey II

 Annie fingered her cloth doll, looking at the indecipherable sign on the beach that Wu had so helpfully said read, "Fools only." She glared at it for a minute, and then an impression of two Xanderians, with their narrow eyes and black hair and short statures, laughing, and putting up the sign. One painted it delicately with a thick black brush. One paused, and seemed to turn and look straight at Annie, for a moment, without her actually having seen her--- A powerful, resonating, real image--- not those half-imagined mostly mind-pictures she was used to receiving--- suddenly appeared before her, whisking her away from reality into the wor

The Journey I

T

The Journey I

 Annie had learned of the pact between the storm dragons of the southwest and those of the northwest and northeast (together) and ever since, the absolutely outlandish idea of trying to cross the eternal storm.... had appealed to her in the manner of a long-lost dream, rediscovered. A writer by heart who had formerly been illiterate all their lives. The idea stemmed from the obvious: that there was something in the southwest of the world map to govern. Something alive. She did not, personally, believe in the story of orange-haired, green-eyed monsters of men, living in a verdant land. She believed in the goodness of people, not necessarily
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18. stars

s

18. stars

pretty, effervescent stars, hiding in them human hearts, hiding in them particular parts, lungs and livers, little bits and small affordable pieces. that's what's inside her. (mentally, not physically so--- for in that, she is like everyone else.) get her started and she will run a blood rhythm, an aperture of the human heart, carved in extra white blood cells, coated in the blue and purple paint of genius artists. an integral chamber of her insanity is the art with which she delivers her messages to earth. an integral participant in her greatness is the mental shakiness with which she clings to a reality formed of thoughts, a shadow of the

Li Soon

L

Li Soon

 Li Soon was her name, a girl with many talents and interests. She usually wrote stories, though. On paper, with charcoal or feather ink pens. She wrote stories of her friends and neighbors' antics, or different versions of her own life or the stories she heard from overseas. Often, they were a little depressing. Xander seemed like a beacon of light in the world; like the only place one could truly live in obscurity and peace. There wasn't even any starvation, although there was still hunger. Twins came here, when they existed, albinos, giants, midgets. Ascmadian witches who didn't want to live in the royal court (with all its cloak and

17. the beast

t

17. the beast

picking wildflowers, snipping roses, the small, wild ones that are less brilliant in color, selecting blades of bluer grass, greener, preserving them and putting them in vases, putting them on masks for the festival, the hundred-year anniversary of the day when the five stood against the one and killed it for the sake of the country (and a couple of others that are gone) the vases sit in every window, red and green remembrances of the human blood lost then, green for purity, a virtue thought to decide the fate of kings, and shake worlds. back then, when wild roses withered before maturity and one could not find the flowers, the beast lost it

16. for long after

f

16. for long after

pretty things, frozen pieces, ever, sun, long life, in the shadow of the neverending tower, wonders for one's complexion, the storms and snowstorms are. each of its teeth are a lifetime of worry, and inside its mouth is a bite that can crush bone, crush lead. but they never got around to guns, just other mechanisms of death. they never got around to capturing it, just its offspring, who die when maturing. sometimes it sleeps in the snowstorms, a blue and white offering of the gods of death in its wake, fur that feels like silk, according to one person, and a shadow that will live long after its gone, for fear any of its offspring make it.

15. forever, sun

f

15. forever, sun

a few hundred sleepy wildflowers all rely on each other for company, unwilling to imagine a life that's different from this. every single blade of grass is precious, and none of them have ever seen a human being, or a domesticated animal, acting unwary. a domesticated animal, acting unnatural. like a horse standing still for ages, waiting for someone to return. then sun rises and they all drink it in together. a thin spindly oak starts to rise from the grass. an inevitable push. a single green leaf sprouts. pink butterflies gather, and then fall away. the moon shifts into phases, falling in place. the flowers face the sun, unrestrained. som

14. itching, bleeding

i

14. itching, bleeding

itching, bleeding cold, decaying, blood, more blood, more full-bodied blood, part of the world, that this thing has made for itself since it left behind its human body. bones and all. all the weak tendons, snapped like strings. all the people, saying what the heck is this thing. turning in its innermost leg like a gristly chandelier it turns and surveys the world in a blinding array of fourteen colors all lighter than yellow. its eyes, slowly, lose their human pupils. now just facets of ruby and brimstone. its eyes snap down to its former child. a feeling of possession comes over it. then, screaming black pain, and it can see no longer. a mi

13. everlasting death

e

13. everlasting death

everlasting death, death in redemption rather than redemption in death---- that's what's to follow for the blonde one and her pale offspring, locked into a cycle of events eternal and neverending. eventually the series of warriors trained and monsters and half-monsters became a series of interlocking loops like a tangling chain, where people were killing monsters and people were killing each other, so there's no hope--- not for those inside the loops at least. a many-clawed, red-horned and shark-toothed beast claiming to have once been a woman named Sherryl bursts into the side of a church one day and slaughtered everyone inside. there's an

The Ghost of a Good Time

T

The Ghost of a Good Time

 Paleo sat on a sitting boulder of grey granite, overlooking the eastern sea. Sea, ocean, it all meant the same thing. When you were a singer, words became colors on a canvas, flexible tools. Beautiful, shale, surprise, wonderful, mystery, Opalescent, everlasting, cerulean, lovely--- Words were weapons, and those who had the artist in them, became the best of the singers. They could use words in a way that touched people--- and the stronger the effect, the better their songs shaped the world. Right now Paleo was silent. He only ever sang in his cabin. He could feel the desire to sing rising up in him, but ignored it for the most part,

The Journey II

T

The Journey II

 Annie fingered her cloth doll, looking at the indecipherable sign on the beach that Wu had so helpfully said read, "Fools only." She glared at it for a minute, and then an impression of two Xanderians, with their narrow eyes and black hair and short statures, laughing, and putting up the sign. One painted it delicately with a thick black brush. One paused, and seemed to turn and look straight at Annie, for a moment, without her actually having seen her--- A powerful, resonating, real image--- not those half-imagined mostly mind-pictures she was used to receiving--- suddenly appeared before her, whisking her away from reality into the wor

The Journey I

T

The Journey I

 Annie had learned of the pact between the storm dragons of the southwest and those of the northwest and northeast (together) and ever since, the absolutely outlandish idea of trying to cross the eternal storm.... had appealed to her in the manner of a long-lost dream, rediscovered. A writer by heart who had formerly been illiterate all their lives. The idea stemmed from the obvious: that there was something in the southwest of the world map to govern. Something alive. She did not, personally, believe in the story of orange-haired, green-eyed monsters of men, living in a verdant land. She believed in the goodness of people, not necessarily

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2. the sea and the stars

t

2. the sea and the stars

i love the way that the northern stretch of stars sliding over the sphere of the heavens roll every night to brighten the cobalt blanket of pitch darkness with their simplistic art and form. i love the way that the sea and the spray co-mingle in a sort of residual courtship where neither is truly tired of the other giving small sapphire gifts and following the proper customs in shades of azure, teal and white, an eternally liquid paint, embroidered on the edges with poems of dark water, filled with rainbow salmon and the lavender tentacles of creatures who live far below, crossing worlds.
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Artist // Professional // Literature
  • Sep 19, 1989
  • United States
  • Deviant for 6 years
  • She / Her
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Super Llama: Llamas are awesome! (31)

October

October

I haven't been able to submit deviations for ages because of my overused computer. Brisel has had a lot added to it, as well as I've started on The Isles of Man, a new series. Is better because there is no magic and everything is centered around religion and island life. I have been making scarves. Seed stitch and seed stitch infinity in solid colors.

November

November

I wish I could do more Months of the Year but I think it will have to wait. I am working on two projects now. I will probably do Armageddon.com stuff until my relevant colors run out. There are the playable Houses, including Tuluki ones that were playable until recently: tenneshi: silver and black winrothol: jade and silver borsail: crimson and black tor: red and silver kassigarh: gold and white fale: purple and green dasari: red and brown oash: azure and black November's challenge is  and I'm not really sure I want to do it on purpose yet, although I have a red project already half-done. You know what? I think I will. I'm just not

August

August

 Time for using up some yellow! Good thing I bought some yellows for personal projects. Now I get to use them. My personal knowledge limits will be the main issue for these projects. I do know how to make a couple of solid ribs.

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Thanks for the fave :)
PiixXxiiEHobbyist Artisan Crafter
Thanks so much for the faves! :knitting:
FearlessFibreArtsHobbyist Artisan Crafter
Thank you for faving my mitts!
Thank you for +fav 
Thanks for the :+fav:  :)
MickeycrickyHobbyist Artisan Crafter
Thank you for the Amigurumi Brown Mushroom! :highfive: