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About Literature / Artist jenniferFemale/United Kingdom Group :iconblood-vow: Blood-Vow
 
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Literature
the trap of memory
At night, he is hanging by his feet. His house spins on the tip of its slated roof, discoloured with age and neglect. The three skylights scan the road and garden in a slow, circular patrol. Above, reclining in her seat, Cassiopaea strips away the foundation, yanking the rusted plumbing from its holdings. Inside, he does not wake. He does not know.
-
The alarm blared unpleasantly. Andrew opened his eyes, watching the beginnings of sunrise filter through the linen curtains. 5am. He didn’t need to check.
The shower’s lukewarm pisswater trickled down his back, barely enough to shift the bubbles of shampoo from his hair. Grumbling, he entertained shaving every single dark blonde strand off and going bald. At least washing would be less of a chore. He’d love to fix the shower next payday, but that money was needed to fix the wiring. Many of the cables were worn out far beyond what was reasonable or even safe. After that, the boiler needed a look. Possibly a replacement.
Th
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Mature content
melancholic :iconlychalis:Lychalis 1 4
Literature
snowballs from a nebula
I blinked to clear the stars clouding my vision, but those pinpricks of distant eternity only bore down upon me with greater fervour. The universe continued to expand and I expanded with it, my bones stretching apart. I was a constellation, newly born, but no frozen snapshot of legend. My breast rose and fell, blood rushed through the intricacies of my arteries and veins. My fingers danced, searching for what filled the vacuum.
When I woke, I would remember nothing but for now I wandered the fields of creation, lost within my element.
My figure had become translucent, the field of atoms spread so thinly that when light passed through me it refracted less and thus, less of me was revealed. I was like a ghost, a physical, breathing ghost.
I swirled the dust-choked void around my fingers and in the palm of my hand I watched a desert storm building, tiny but ferocious. I kept it spinning and it called in more of the material around us and swelled as it did so, a feasting glutton. Dimly, I
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Literature
the shape of speech
I’ve often thought that communication is like water: our conversations flow like a river, carving its way through the landscape of human experience. It’s full of changes that jolt the flow - currents and eddies. Beneath the surface, agendas and emotions cloud the water - sediment and stones. One thing I’ve recently wondered: if that’s the case, then what’s the shape of speech?
“Constant stars, in them I read such art
as truth and beauty shall together thrive.”

It had been a long time since I’d last formed the words, reading aloud on my boyhood bed. My eyes were wistful as I watched our candidate, our front-of-house in the latest presidential race work her way through the campaign speech. Today the focus was on rising poverty, on reducing the cost of living. I’d agonised over this point a few nights back when I was writing the damn thing. It sounded so naive the idea seemed impossible, but maybe she’d find a way once in
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:iconlychalis:Lychalis 3 6
Literature
things without mouths
I found him at the back of the town hall, washing away graffiti that swirled in endless spirals and almost seemed to glow. He was straining to reach the highest curves of paint - I could hear his grunts from where I stood, twenty metres away. It was a warm afternoon and I’d just finished work, so I sat down to watch him for a little while, opening up a water bottle from my bag.
While watching him work, I studied the man. It was difficult to tell exactly without seeing his face, but it didn’t look like the years had been kind to him. The skin of his hands and neck was mottled and worn, like crinkled paper. His hair was thinning and streaked with grey. The skin below looked almost transparent. It looked like removing the graffiti was tiring work, but he kept on wearing it away regardless. There was an almost tender care about his movements that kept them from seeming automatic.
Eventually he turned around, the wall cleared, and noticed me. “You’ve been sitting the
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Literature
teddy bears in atlantis
We don’t see much down in the black depths. Our sight is only as good as the lights of our eyes. When we look around the darkness is peppered with our starlight - and us, standing like shadows behind them. Their light is shallow and dim, meant for looking at dials and things we need to fix. It is not meant for looking at our selves.
Warmth in heart and body are only words - we know their definitions, but we’ve never known what they can mean. We stay down here and hold back the chill of the sea from infecting the great spiraling city above our heads. We keep our charges warm - we don’t feel the warmth ourselves. We’re not even sure we can.
The base of the city is filled with large boilers, with pipes spreading from these iron suns like arteries. We and our selves man them, watch the pressure, the temperature, fix the pipes when they block and leak. Sometimes one breaks completely and it’s a challenge for us and the others as we all have to make sure their p
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Literature
doorstep encounters
Elijah checked the sign of the road he'd walked into, 'Anne Bolyne's Walk'. He been asked to, no, told to flog his goods down this road. His goods were nothing special, just a bag full of umbrellas. He wasn't sure of the quality, but at £5 each they were probably overpriced.
He sighed, hefting the bag of brollies further up onto his shoulders. He didn't even know why he'd taken the job. It was the last thing he wanted to be doing. It was the last thing he wanted to be doing, systematically knocking on every door and talking to complete strangers who were likely less than a word away from slamming the door in his face.
If his mum hadn't threatened to throw him out, he would've skipped the interview and gone straight back to paid surveys. It was pathetic. He was nearly thirty and still he had to physically drag himself to interviews, and everything like them. Elijah had never liked strangers, but when they were sat across from him, a friendly face with a distant manner, measuring h
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Literature
not as easy as you thought
Melding's easier than you'd have thought;
your sight will dim and tunnel on the screen -
wires burn your eyes, your head hits the keyboard.
Living on the web, your mind's a port -
before long, your computer will agree
melding's easier than we all thought.
When you wake up, your back feels like a cord -
a mess of copper wires you cannot see.
You're blind, those eyes were crushed by the keyboard.
Alarms will make you wish you could abort;
they ring inside your skull until you scream
'melding's not as easy as I thought!'
You have programs to run and files to sort -
a worm is found: it matches you, it seems
you don't belong; asleep on your keyboard.
Contain/delete/ignore? You shout ignore!
You, without control, marked for 'delete'.
Melding's not as easy as  you thought -
your mind's a husk now, dead on your keyboard.
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Literature
little violone
The earth for all its years could sing without me.
Past the sky, the listening spheres sing without me.
Deep in the woods, the nymphs and spirits flit
through the old trees. They hear, but sing without me.
Within my heartstrings hums the flesh of beasts,
threads with no bloody veneer - sing without me.
Now the crawling creatures are left alone
while silvered sounding veins near sing without me.
Carvings and curves of a feminine feel,
like ink into her back seared - sing without me.
Artists work my tongue with pen and horsehair -
groups of musicians here won't sing without me.
With ease, I can mimic the human voice;
to great peaks I dive and rear, so sing without me.
I don't need your voice. I am in command
of sonorous solos. Dear, sing without me,
or try. My fairy, phantom garbed in white,
you couldn't bear, puppeteer, sing without me.
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:iconlychalis:Lychalis 19 11
Literature
routine maintenance
Every year, they marched me
to a hall full
of clocks that pulsed
synonymous with my clicking limbs.
The watchmaker had tools
for fingers - a screwdriver fifth;
he pointed with pliers, and we grew
large behind his splayed palms.
The room was filled with
clocks, freshly polished.
Their metal frames gleamed, groaned
as they curved into place
on the tables, in spirals.
'You may begin.'
My eyes glowed blue, too bright
for quartz; head gears
whirred too fast, my hamster heart.
Dust shook from my hands;
exhaled motes, dancing
in steam, were cooled and dripped down
the window. I sat,
he cut open my head;
pulled out gears, interrogated
as he went. He wanted to learn
what I knew, not how I felt -
he snapped a gear when I was
wrong, left me to close
the gap.
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Critiques


:iconlacoterie: Hey, I've been trying to think of something to say about this for a while now. Sometimes I have a lot of trouble actually wording my ...

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So I've just realized that in terms of of my writing ability, my poetry is strongest. In terms of recognition it's where I've had the most success. My flash fiction I think is okayish, hard to say, but none of my short stories seem that strong, annoyingly.

I think part of it is because I write them like I do poetry: free write and go from there. It might have something to do with laziness, failing to really plan out and then waffling on, being weird for the sake of it. Maybe it's because I don't take the time to find the story in the mess and chip away at it till that's all that's left. Or at least, when I try I don't manage to follow through to the end. I'm still rewriting Teddy Bears in Atlantis. Just got stuck on where to go next cause there's so much I've changed.

I wonder if I should try to bridge the gap between poetry and short story more. Is that even possible? Or would it just become a little too purple?

Technique and structure is where they seem to suffer, so idk :/

I get the feeling I need to read more short stories. Either way this would make for an interesting discussion.
Ok, so Robert Shearman is an awesome person and writer and I am definitely getting one of his short story collections when I get around to it. He wrote the Doctor Who episode 'Dalek', in case you're wondering. Yeah, a really decent episode. I suddenly feel so misty-eyed. Hell, I guess I really like Dark Doctor Episodes x3 I want more of those angsty feels.

Di I mention? Robot Shearman came to my uni and did a talk. One of my lecturers was running it and she looked like she was very close to fangirling C:

Also, I miss the fancy journal layouts... *sigh* back to basics for now, ne?

Now, to my ps2, Steam (I need to test a dongle thigummy my housemate lent me) or more Anime? I have too many series to catch up on...

yeah, yeah, I know what I should be doing. I also know what I'm not doing.

Oh, and by the way? The Winter Soldier is really really really awesome and everyone should watch it.

ciaooooo

edit: I just realised I put Robot in place of Robert. Bollocks. *shakes fist at subconscious*
  • Reading: Pride and Prejudice
  • Watching: Sailor Moon S
  • Playing: Jak 2: Renegade... again
  • Drinking: Pepsi

deviantID

Lychalis
jennifer
Artist | Literature
United Kingdom
Poet by name,
pretentious by nature.

There's a novel in my chest:
split my ribs, pull it out,
have a read -
bedtime literature.

I hope you
remember my
name, strange creature.

Blood Vow: A House of Night RPG - Blood Vow: A House of Night RPG

Current Residence: Sutton
Favourite genre of music: Alternative, Electronic
Operating System: Windows 7
MP3 player of choice: Ipod
Personal Quote: Insanity is a virtue.
Interests

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:iconthelovetrain:
TheLoveTrain Featured By Owner Jun 15, 2018
Happy birthday, Jennifer … hope it's your best ever!

~Bryan :heart:

:icondoctrinaire:
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:iconpulbern:
pulbern Featured By Owner Dec 18, 2017  Hobbyist General Artist
Welcome to dALibrary! :tea: :biscuit:

We hope that you'll find our resources helpful. Please see our FAQ if you have any questions and feel free to become a member!

:hug:
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:iconilluminara:
illuminara Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Thank for the watch! =D
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:iconlychalis:
Lychalis Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2016   Writer
^_^
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:iconinkedacrylic:
inkedacrylic Featured By Owner Aug 18, 2015   Writer
thank you so much for faving my writing :wow:
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:iconthesolipsisticsluagh:
TheSolipsisticSluagh Featured By Owner May 18, 2015  Professional Writer
Thank you very much for the favorite. :heart:
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:iconankredible:
Ankredible Featured By Owner Mar 2, 2015  Professional
:iconcuteyoyoplz:Thanks for the FAV:iconyoyobowplz:
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:iconpierreartou:
PierreARtou Featured By Owner Jul 18, 2014  Student Digital Artist
Thank you for the watch ! :D
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:iconlychalis:
Lychalis Featured By Owner Jul 18, 2014   Writer
You're welcome!

I'll let you know if any of your artwork inspires my writing :D
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:iconpierreartou:
PierreARtou Featured By Owner Jul 19, 2014  Student Digital Artist
That would be a pleasure ! :)
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