Shop Forum More Submit  Join Login
About Literature / Professional Senior Member MegFemale/United States Groups :iconanthropology-of-self: Anthropology-of-Self
 
Recent Activity
Deviant for 13 Years
Core Member 'til Hell freezes over
Statistics 232 Deviations 5,712 Comments 97,157 Pageviews

Newest Deviations

Literature
Sky and Arrow
When Vee had first arrived on Earth, she thought she’d never really pick her feet off the ground. She hated the sky. It was too wide. Too empty. It made her mistrust gravity.
But when it came to maintaining a shuffle or running for her life, Vee chose to run.
With her heart pounding loud in her ears, Vee burst out of the woods. She turned in a full circle, feet scuffling in the loose gravel that littered the dirt road.  On one side was the woods they’d run full tilt through. Her bare calves stung with a multitude of tiny cuts from the wildflower underbrush that had seemed so pretty at first. But Vee felt every single minute gash from the branches and brambles that had cut at her skin. The cuff of her capris spilled over with vibrant purple and red petals.  She’d done just as much renting of flesh to the flowers as the plants had done to her.
Gavrin was bent double next to her, pulling in gasps of breath. Behind him, on the other side of the road was a field
:iconHalatia:Halatia
:iconhalatia:Halatia 6 4
Literature
Eliana - Prologue
The whole world was watching when the Prime Minister had a knife driven through his heart.
Eliana was home sprawled on the floor, a pile of gears and and bolts and screws splayed out before her. She only half listened to the news caster as she excitedly commented on proceedings. Ana’s mind and fingers more concerned with building a pocket-sized catapult, per her father’s instructions. Her father sat behind her on the couch, his posture sloppy. Quite unlike him, his elbows on his knees, one hand buried in his hair. The action let his ears show, the pointed tips quivering as he strained to hear the news over the sound of Eliana’s three elder sisters once again attempting to recreate the Elfen Girls newest music video.
Ana hadn’t been asked to join their fun. Not because she was tone deaf -- though, to be sure, every single one of the Lochland girls was about as musical as a bullfrog -- but because they knew she’d never be so frivolous with her time. Not when
:iconHalatia:Halatia
:iconhalatia:Halatia 44 22
Literature
Desiccation
The backdoor was always locked, a heavy deadbolt of a lock, almost too difficult to throw back, even for a grown man. The most secure door in the whole house no doubt. So he couldn’t have gotten out that way. And all the doors upstairs creaked with weathered age or slid rough in their tracks, grating plastic on metal. The door off the sunroom, though, held potential.
    This was the basement that still haunts my memory: one bedroom, a den and a short connecting hallway that ended in a bathroom. The great room, long and thin, was mirrored to the north by a hallway that connected a half kitchen and laundry room. Then a workroom that in my memory was as big as my entire childhood home, unfinished floors filled with books and wood working tools, the materials of my grandparents’ obsessions.
    Beyond that room was the sunroom, and though the door would have been difficult to get to through all the discarded beach toys and household paraphernalia, escape it
:iconHalatia:Halatia
:iconhalatia:Halatia 4 7
Literature
Light Years
I
Time is a human construct ably abetted by the sky, the stars. We looked at the sky and decided to delineate day and night, to make them into two halves, when in fact they were just fine whole.
Prehistory – our prehistory – we were overwhelmed by the sky. Cave paintings and inscriptions are a myriad of hypothetical disasters, stars falling, bursting, chelating. For we saw the Milky Way in all its wonder, all white dust, blue light and rosy curls, a solid mass hanging heavy in the sky.
II
A girl has prehistory as well. Before she is born, before she is even the star twinkling in her mother’s eye, her parents meet. They fall in love because the stars deem them compatible. The mother, an Aquarius, full of intellect and dreams. The father, a Taurus, rooted so firmly in the ground that he has enough foundation to lift the world. Both are fixed signs, revolving around one another, becoming the binary.
III
The Kalahari have a myth: deep in the desert, a
:iconHalatia:Halatia
:iconhalatia:Halatia 73 28
A Month of Purr by Halatia A Month of Purr :iconhalatia:Halatia 2 0
Literature
Purged
Even the air was grey.
When sunlight managed to slip through the grime that coated the small, high-up windows, it streaked through dust particles that twisted in the air, casting the whole room in a slate, prison gray that echoed the color of the walls, the ceiling. As she walked, Flynt left gray footprints in the thick layer of the stuff that covered the ground. Only then did color peak out, hints of bloody crimson carpet that had rusted away to a dull oxygen-deprived red.
She drew in breath through her mouth. After the fifth house, she’d learned not to inflict her nose with the awful smells that lingered, spoiled food mixed with spoiled dreams. But even then, scents curled their way into her nostrils, the sharp edge of ammonia telling her to not stay long.
Dishes sat unwashed in the sink, crusts of meals still visible after all this time. Whoever had lived here had left in a hurry – they’d even left perfectly good canned goods in plain view on the counter.
The sight
:iconHalatia:Halatia
:iconhalatia:Halatia 4 16
Literature
The Changed
"Along with this optimistic estimate, I must -- in all candor -- leave one note of caution."
The talk show host’s voice was broken by crackling static, but anyone listening would be able to fill in the rest of the statement. It was the same sign off that newscasters all favored since the world had spiraled. “Leave one note of caution: we are still not safe from those who call themselves the Changed.”
As the sound of the segment’s exit music fizzled around the gas station, she moved with carefully measured steps. Her identity wasn't exposed in words. Nor was it revealed in her actions. Searching the coolers for a drink was hardly an incriminating activity. There was merely an ambiance – an unshakable air she had developed over the course of the past five years. Paranoid eyes picked her out of the scarcely filled gas station. She felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck as she ran her fingertips along the scar tissue on the heels of her palms, fighting ba
:iconHalatia:Halatia
:iconhalatia:Halatia 2 12
Literature
Day One
The first day I attempt to be something more, I have six pieces of pizza (eight if you count dessert pizza) and watch the final four episodes of Breaking Bad. I shower, only to spend the day in a cat-hair covered robe. I tell myself to get work done, but instead spend three hours dicking around on the internet. I have half that pizza allotment for breakfast. I have the other half while watching Walter White’s drug empire finally and totally crumple, unravel, and end.
When I blow my nose, the snot is gummy and red. When I inhale, all I smell is rusted iron and winter.
At 4:30 PM, I leave for the gym.
It’s one of Nebraska’s cold snap days, when the sun shines as bright as ever in a boldfaced temptation, luring people out into an atmosphere that some might call brisk and I call fucking cold. The sun is already setting and it cannot be more than a handful of degrees out.
The drive to the gym is quick, not enough time for the car’s heater to kick on and not en
:iconHalatia:Halatia
:iconhalatia:Halatia 4 7
Literature
Imagine the Cat
Imagine the call:
When I am already tangled in sheets soaked with summer sweat, the phone vibrates, cutting through the buzz of mosquitoes. I ignore it at first. Past midnight, I assume a drunk dialing friend. But then a buzz indicates a voice mail and for some reason, I wake up enough to enter my pin, brain soggy with sleep, and listen.
“This is the Omaha airport. We’ve, uh, got a cat here.”
“Christ almighty,” I say, already rolling out of bed. “The jerk is early.”
Imagine the drive:
Heat lightning jumps from cloud to cloud, and I can feel the electricity on my skin, waking up my eyes and lightening my tongue. I’d called and begged – pleaded incoherently as my brain fought to fully regain communicative skills – for the airport to stay open another forty-five minutes.
That’s how it takes me to get there, heart – unable to calm down from the phone call – racing the whole time, windows rolled down
:iconHalatia:Halatia
:iconhalatia:Halatia 5 23
Literature
Harvest
The harvest moon hangs heavy and huge in the sky, its light somewhere between yellow and orange, the type of moon that demands discussion. I want to tell him that just the night before, I had finally seen the face in the moon. After all those years looking at the craters, wondering if people said they could see it just because everyone else said they could see it, suddenly it solidified – a wide mouth that seemed pinched at the sides and sad eyes as though the face staring down was disappointed that it had taken me so long to finally see her for who she was.
But I did not tell him this. I did not tell him that all I wanted to do was go somewhere dark enough to be able to see the Milky Way, the white smear of stars that fills the sky with a solidity of the universe that single stars could never convey. But all I can think about is the immediacy of the kiss I know is coming, and so I keep my desires secreted away.
Instead, I stare at the disparaging face in the moon and wipe sweat
:iconHalatia:Halatia
:iconhalatia:Halatia 4 16
Literature
The Power of Rejection
A chasm opens between the dream of success and the fear of rejection. It can be impassible, the Grand Canyon of risk deterrents. And so many choose to never cross it, deciding it is much better to stay on the dream side than to hazard having hopes dashed against the cavern floor below.
The fear paralyzes. It rockets hearts into throats, becomes a mountain, elicits a high-pitched shriek of terror at the very thought of trying to take on the possibility of rejection. It keeps drawings secreted away in sketchbooks or songs buried five folders deep on a desktop – creations labored over and loved but never given the chance to be loved by others. Unaided, unencouraged and unseen, creativity trudges on unchallenged, unbettered and unrewarded. All because safety is better than the dread and anxiety that comes with showing others into our world.
We'd been sitting on completed stories for months, too afraid to send them out. The first time face-to-face with the precipice of potential reject
:iconHalatia:Halatia
:iconhalatia:Halatia 14 8
Literature
A Talking To
It begins with one rock—
a sloughed sediment that
has had enough of that bitch Gravity's pull
and decides it is time to go Down and talk
with Her face-to-face.
It shifts from noun to verb and
rolls to the edge to get a good look at what it's facing.
She is invisible, hiding somewhere among
the treeline pines or the caldera lake that glints like compressed coal.
No matter, it thinks.  Her allure is like iron ore, coaxing and strong and unavoidable.
It tilts over the precipice and drops, slipping and striking along
the slope perpendicular to Her call with care enough to send
sparks up with each impact.  At the sight of it, others join—granites and dolomites
and even shy shale—until they are a cascade across the siltstone dry of water.
They cross time, eons pass in flashes of banded layers,
and farther back they travel, the stronger She is.
It can almost smell her now—a mix of clay musk
and magma heat.
It is no longer in fall—
it is in pull, in
:iconHalatia:Halatia
:iconhalatia:Halatia 15 14
Literature
In the Heat of the Moment
Stagnant summer air seeped in through the sliding screen door that led off to the patio. There was no breeze to serve as relief, as per usual for a mid-August evening in this small Midwestern town. It wouldn't have been so intolerable if the air conditioner hadn't busted. Sometime during the afternoon, the clanking machine had shuttered still, bringing a silence that baked.
The high temperature caused the evening meal to not be as enjoyable as usual. Rear-ends stuck sickly to the hardwood of the chairs, making squelching noises with every movement. Little feet dangled above the floor next to the adult legs that were flushed with heat. My dark hair wasn't long enough to pull back and it was flattened against my head in sweaty strands. But Melissa's, bright and curly, was pulled back in a manner that was positively envious. She flipped her ponytail at every opportunity, drawing attention to the grass stains on the sleeves of her shirt from somersaulting through the open field of the scho
:iconHalatia:Halatia
:iconhalatia:Halatia 5 14

Webcam

It has come to my attention that I need a fiction pen name. 

45%
10 deviants said Or maybe "Raptor Queen"
27%
6 deviants said I'm thinking "Meg Raptor"
27%
6 deviants said Halp. I'm terrible at this.

(Current) Favorite Passage

But no one may know the shape of the tale in which they move. And perhaps, we do not truly know what sort of beast it is, either. Stories have a way of changing faces. They are unruly things, undisciplined, given to delinquency and the throwing of erasers. This is why we must close them up into thick, solid books, so they cannot get out and cause trouble.

--Catherynne M. Valente, The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making

Watchers

Visitors

deviantID

Halatia
Meg
Artist | Professional | Literature
United States
Hi! My name is Meg. I really like cheese and Young Adult fiction.

(DevID made by Thiefoworld)
Interests

Turns out, the first 3 years of a PhD is hard

Journal Entry: Mon Feb 18, 2019, 12:39 PM




It is a life suck. The readings don't end, the seminar papers at once useful and utterly horrific to muscle through. And it all culminates in preliminary exams -- which are institutionalized hazing (though I really cannot say enough about how humane my program has made them). 

But I'm through the other side. I've defended my dissertation proposal. I've started the endless process of actually writing the damn thing. 

I have started to read for fun again (falling in love with Ravka and Ketterdam -- no mourners, no funerals) and it's stretching out those old muscles that had atrophied away. The ones that want to build worlds -- to create characters that are a bundle of bones and heart, flaws and fire. That old creative itch is back. 

I'm so thankful to find that it isn't dead after all, just smashed under the stress, waiting for a moment to peak out and say, "Hey. Remember me?"

I do, dear friend. Time to put pen to page. 

Activity


When Vee had first arrived on Earth, she thought she’d never really pick her feet off the ground. She hated the sky. It was too wide. Too empty. It made her mistrust gravity.

But when it came to maintaining a shuffle or running for her life, Vee chose to run.

With her heart pounding loud in her ears, Vee burst out of the woods. She turned in a full circle, feet scuffling in the loose gravel that littered the dirt road.  On one side was the woods they’d run full tilt through. Her bare calves stung with a multitude of tiny cuts from the wildflower underbrush that had seemed so pretty at first. But Vee felt every single minute gash from the branches and brambles that had cut at her skin. The cuff of her capris spilled over with vibrant purple and red petals.  She’d done just as much renting of flesh to the flowers as the plants had done to her.

Gavrin was bent double next to her, pulling in gasps of breath. Behind him, on the other side of the road was a field of wheat. Or barley. Or oats. Some golden crop that bent with a breeze Vee hadn’t been able to feel while running through the woods. The grain whispered as stalks rubbed together, a soft sound so abnormal that Vee took a step back, almost willing to go back into the trees. The crop stretched as far as she could see down the road in either direction, and even though the sound was soft, the magnitude of it was overwhelming, a thousand different voices murmuring something she could not understand.

And worst of all was the blue sky that seemed to go on forever. There wasn’t a cloud, just a yellow-white sun that stung with its brightness. Vee fought the urge to fall to her knees, to hug the ground. She couldn’t do that every single time she saw the sky in its vastness. But it still felt like she might just tip right off the world, that she might fall forever into blue.

“Where is she?” Gav rasped, standing and holding a stitch in his side. “Did she make it out?”

Vee turned again. They were missing the woman who had been their fellow captive. The one who Vee had insisted on freeing. The one who had never said a word, but, for some reason, Vee had been unable to leave behind.

A mistake. This was all a mistake.

“I don’t know,” Vee said. Her voice sounded so small next to the incessant susurration of the field. “I lost track of her.”

Gav swore, shielding his eyes with his free hand. As he peered down the road, he straightened his back, practically going up on tiptoe as though the height might let him see further. Vee swallowed the urge to to reach out and grab him, to hold him in place, to stop  him from slipping off the Earth into sky.

“I thought she was right next to you,” he said, dropping his hand.

“Maybe she’s still in there,” Vee said, turning back to the woods. Birds had gone silent as the threesome had pounded through the woods. And it was still quiet. All except the sound of whispering grain. Vee covered her ears with both hands. “Maybe they got her,” she said, feeling her voice more than hearing it.

If he noticed, Gav didn’t comment on her behavior. “We lost them,” he said with certainty. “They stopped chasing us a mile ago.” Vee doubted it. Surely, captors wouldn’t give up so easily.

Gav’s feet moved against the gravel in a way that shouted against the whisper, a human sound at odds with nature. “She must have taken off. Stars.” The swear was adamant, like he was a step away from yelling it.

“What if this was a ploy?” Vee asked, a tremble in her voice. “What if she was really working for them? And she just set us up to be hunted. She never even said a word to us. Why did we take her with us, Gav? Why did we ever free a Wilder?”

They should have left her behind, should never have trusted her silence. The tug of pity that Vee had felt for the girl who couldn’t speak seemed so foolish now. Why have pity on a woman who knew this world so much better than Vee herself did? As if someone from the moon could ever help an Earther -- and a mutant Earther at that.

The last two days seemed like one long string of bad choices, capped off by having faith in a wild girl who did not speak. Vee regretted that split second decision to cut her free, the wasted seconds, the show of weakness. She had thought she was being kind, had found a potential ally. Instead, she and Gav were in even worse shape than ever; there was no way to know where the woman had gone or if she had ever actually been on their side.

Vee remembered her father’s words. Mercy only works if the person is in need of saving.

“Gav --


Gavrin’s hand shot out to grasp Vee at the shoulder, holding on so tightly and with such pressure that Vee felt sure her knees would buckle. She almost let it just happen. She still wanted to grasp the Earth with both arms, to hold on until the sky went away.

“What --” She tried to speak again, but Gav gave a sharp shake of his head. He was backing up slowly, trying to pull them both back into the woods. His eyes were locked on the field. They were so wide they were more whites than color, his pupils fully contracted, the green of his irises unnaturally full.

Vee’s heart had finally settled down from the run, but it ricocheted off again. She followed his gaze, but all she saw was the swayin grain.

Then a glint. Sun on metal.

Vee squinted against it, but from the point of flare, a figure suddenly resolved. She was dressed in shades of brown that blended perfectly with the field. With sunkissed skin and short golden yellow hair that swirled in the wind looking so much like vacillating stalks around her, the girl was almost impossible to see. But she had blue eyes the precise shade of the sky that gaped above them. And in her hand was a bow, string pulled taut, metal arrow sharp and clean enough to reflect the sun.
Sky and Arrow
Setting myself a goal of 200 words a day, 1,000 words by Friday. Just little flash vignettes. Trying to remember how to write creatively. Send help. 
Loading...

Turns out, the first 3 years of a PhD is hard

Journal Entry: Mon Feb 18, 2019, 12:39 PM




It is a life suck. The readings don't end, the seminar papers at once useful and utterly horrific to muscle through. And it all culminates in preliminary exams -- which are institutionalized hazing (though I really cannot say enough about how humane my program has made them). 

But I'm through the other side. I've defended my dissertation proposal. I've started the endless process of actually writing the damn thing. 

I have started to read for fun again (falling in love with Ravka and Ketterdam -- no mourners, no funerals) and it's stretching out those old muscles that had atrophied away. The ones that want to build worlds -- to create characters that are a bundle of bones and heart, flaws and fire. That old creative itch is back. 

I'm so thankful to find that it isn't dead after all, just smashed under the stress, waiting for a moment to peak out and say, "Hey. Remember me?"

I do, dear friend. Time to put pen to page. 

Donate

Halatia has started a donation pool!
2,150 / 10,000
Halatia's secret point pool for secret* awesome.

(*and by secret, I mean ways to make the Lit Community even better!)

You must be logged in to donate.
:iconxlntwtch::iconmotleydreams:Anonymous:iconrainyhawaiiv2::iconeuxiom::iconobsidian-nightfall::iconvigilo::iconkersee9::iconjennifercrane::iconalisonblue:

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconyouinventedme:
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner Feb 20, 2019  Hobbyist Writer
I appreciate the :+devwatch:
Reply
:iconspecialized666:
specialized666 Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2018  Professional Interface Designer
Hi, have a great day :D
Reply
:iconphoenixleo:
phoenixleo Featured By Owner May 17, 2017
Happy Birthday! :iconballoonplz:
Reply
:iconvsconcepts:
VSConcepts Featured By Owner May 17, 2017  Professional Interface Designer
Happy Birthday!! XD :cake: :dance: :party: :dalove: :boogie: :headbang:
Reply
:iconpoetshand:
PoetsHand Featured By Owner Jul 17, 2016
Hello!
Reply
:iconvsconcepts:
VSConcepts Featured By Owner May 17, 2016  Professional Interface Designer
Happy Birthday!!! XD :cake: :party: :dance: :dalove:
Reply
:iconraspil:
raspil Featured By Owner May 17, 2015   Writer
i hope you have a fantastic day!  :cake:
Reply
:iconphoenixleo:
phoenixleo Featured By Owner May 17, 2015
Happy Birthday! :iconballoonplz: 
Reply
:iconladylincoln:
LadyLincoln Featured By Owner May 17, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday, lovely. :heart:
Reply
:iconliliwrites:
LiliWrites Featured By Owner May 17, 2015
Happy birthday! :hug:
Reply
Add a Comment: