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About Literature / Professional Senior Member PaulMale/Australia Recent Activity
Deviant for 14 Years
Core Member 'til Hell freezes over
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Literature
Sonnet 5
The ordered seasons mock the human heart,
where golden days are marred by winter's frost
and cold despair, unwilling to depart,
must suffer summer's warmth and wear the cost
of feigned enjoyment's cast: a brittle smile.
The pain of tempests past: those certain waves
that pound a wounded heart, that little isle
alone against the sea. The hurt enslaves,
its path a circle, always leading back,
each winter sharper, deeper. No remorse
can heal the dead or shape the past, no track
can breach time's walls, no penance change its course.
The wasteland fears a spring of piercing pains
so, shattered many times, the mask remains.
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Literature
Dragon Summer, Ch2 excerpt
She didn't like the aftermath; she felt empty, depleted, tainted. She couldn't quite relate to the self she had been for much of the day. The thoughts that had so energised her now appeared rather sordid. It was disconcerting; like being embarrassed by the peculiar actions of a staid friend. She was left with a familiar yet potent sense of shame that framed and undermined what had once been merely a secret, idiosyncratic pleasure.
Katie yawned, clambered into her pyjamas and trudged to the bathroom, accusatory thoughts circling. It wasn't until she had dried her hands and switched off the light that she noticed the oddly bright sky shining through frosted glass. She bit a knuckle hard and stood irresolute.
'The dragons' dream,' she said aloud against the silence. 'This is a dream.'
Dream or not, it had been beautiful last year and fear only heightened wonder.
She floated barefoot down the stairs, entranced by nascent awe. Through the kitchen window silvered branches climbed aloft, shad
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Mature content
Dragon Summer - Ch 1 :iconminorkey:MinorKey 0 8
Literature
Untitled, Chapter 1
Cloud leaned against the vanity as another wave of dizziness crashed over her. She concentrated on breathing and waited for the wave to recede. It sucked at her, blackened the edges of her vision, but she pressed her knees against the vanity's doors and held her balance and the pressure subsided. The music from her bedroom pushed back in, harsh and insistent; the mocking voice of an empty house. She clenched her eyes. Hot tears rushed down her cheeks. Another wave battered her.
She does it with sheep.
Welsh witch.
Stupid name. I hate clouds, always grey and cold and wet.
You should go back where you came from, rain cloud. We don't want you here.

Cloud blinked against the salt sting of her distress. The basin with its muddy water swam into focus. Her left hand clenched the rim, both smeared with mud and scraps of grass. Her right hand held the razor.
I'm going to have you after school, witch bitch. I'm going to smack that sheep's arse face of yours and there's going to be no t
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Literature
Winter's child
Winter howls beneath the eaves, a child's ache,
furious and forlorn. My windows rattle,
rain-lashed and wind-whipped, while I lie awake
with desert eyes, all moisture spent in battle;
that futile effort, sword against the sand,
which shows no wound but leaves a bitter rime,
a salt-poisoned plain. Can courage withstand
erosion? Hope, the constant cut of time?
Rain glitters on grimy panes, silver light
against the golden, mirrored warmth inside
and I am safe from stormy weather's might.
A matter of perspective, yet a guide:
I fall asleep with thunder in my ear,
for now, this night, completely without fear.
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Literature
For an absent mother
I know you love me, even through the shame
of absence. That is how I bear the cost,
the weight like lead each time I hear your name,
slow bitter poison, knowing what I've lost
can never be regained, the scorn and fear
of ignorance, though this I recognise:
the institution's captive cannot bear
her only child, and I am not that wise.
I want to hate as well, but you are mine!
I can't forget you, nor leave you alone
with your nightmares, your screams, your guilty whine;
for what if I'm the cause? I must atone,
for hurt and duty both are not so bold
but love, when known, turns venom into gold.
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Literature
Clear night sky
On frosty nights the stars are hard and cold;
unreached they gleam and make me feel so small.
Such vastness yet becomes a thing to hold
when framed in glass and hung upon a wall.
And through this window I perceive a ship
at anchor, high above the cirrus streams,
and I must board this vessel, lest I slip,
unknowing, from my waking into dreams
and endless, wasted, winter days. Oh, choice!
Aloof, remote, a splinter of those stars,
my stony, moonlit face and silent voice
must seem to those beyond these unseen bars.
The sails are furled, the lanterns, warm and bright,
defy the harsh and boundless empty night.
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Literature
Elegy WIP
Elegy for a lost world
These hills were once adorned in deeper hues,
when ancient boughs burst forth in bright array.
Forgotten now, the memory yet imbues
the cluttered vales where once the Fey held sway.
Where terraced houses step down cobbled lanes
and slate-bruised slopes betray forsaken mines,
majestic trees once tossed their dappled manes
and pierced the sky with countless eager tines.
In oaken groves, by sweetly glistening streams
the prayerful mortals knelt in awe and dread
of holy places, otherworldly dreams,
of misty mornings and a godly tread;
Cernunnos, horned and huge, by wolf and stag
attended, passed with stately, hunter's stride
beneath the raven-haunted, rocky crag,
the riven sky bleak-white and terror-wide.
Up-rising in his wake the fallen came,
a gale of silent, silenced, sorrowed slain.
They passed, conducted north, their final name
the songs of bards: a pool reflecting rain.
Above, the mantic seat alight with dawn,
the visionary squats with life-soa
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Tibet - high pass by MinorKey Tibet - high pass :iconminorkey:MinorKey 19 28
Literature
prologue - elegy
She rests beside old weathered stone, bronzed
by waning day.
In the lane slow footsteps sound,
veiled by hedge and tree; echo of another tread
that will not come again.
Lazy leaves fall
soft as summer rain about her,
blurred by bitter warmth.
There are many worlds, I said, and every way that a world could possibly be is a way that some world is. And she said this world, ours, the least likely, is possible; so much I can believe, but we cannot cross over.
Can't we? I asked, for nothing impossible can be said, and these dark smudges march at my command.
Above the steeple, now in shade,
in fields beneath the miner's shale,
a distant farmer feeds his flock.
And still she sits where she once sat
with me, and we would chat of this
and that, of dreams and oceans, mist and cave;
the borders of the absent fey,
the nymphs of neverland.
Don't mock, she said, the virtual is an illusion and the meaning of my dreams eludes me. You can't catch a shadow.
Perhaps, said I, a dream is better shared?
This
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Literature
Harry
The way we see
My name is Johnny and Harry was my brother but he shot himself the big stupid bastard. He was in one of his rages and found the bloody key. They don't believe me though so they want me to write what I remember. I don't know why they call themselves the authorities which I heard meant they was in charge cos them bloody ignorant officials say they can't find no record of Harry but they couldn't find a freakin rat in a sewer if it bit them in the arse which it wouldn't cos it's got more sense.
Well I'm not going to forget that day am I? I was at home looking after Mam who can't walk much and Maggie who had just come in after school a bit later than usual She was like a little sister to me her Mam got killed They said it was accidental the soldiers was scared and shot her by mistake Well if that's true there's lots of mistakes happen nearly every week around here but there's no tv crews no more and nobody gives a shit. We give Maggie a home cos her Mam was close to my Mam an
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desktops by MinorKey desktops :iconminorkey:MinorKey 0 42 reflections by MinorKey reflections :iconminorkey:MinorKey 0 14 love me by MinorKey love me :iconminorkey:MinorKey 10 43
Literature
Draw me as I am
When I was younger I thought death was an end, but now I think it is a process. I see this in the conversion of mourner's black to a trite fashion statement, in wisdom replaced by progress. It is a searching in the sand for words that might save you, while stones fall and understanding departs. It is knowing that most of my grandchildren's generation will not recognise the reference to which I allude, let alone its significance.
The gas heater flickers; orange light beneath plastic coals provides a comforting illusion. No more cinders, no more black dust coating every surface. I suppose I should be grateful.
On the television a man grins inanely. His wife competently organises around his bumbling ineptness. His children sigh and look embarrassed, or resigned.
"That's what it's like now, see?" I say to the ghost in the chair by the fireplace.
"What's that, Dad?" my daughter Alison asks from the kitchen, where no doubt she is planning my week very efficiently. The effective career mum, a
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Literature
Castle in the sky 1
The squat, ugly airship hovered at its maximum ceiling, well above the height the passenger liners used. A low moon and good cloud cover rendered the ship almost invisible; nevertheless the ports were shuttered and all outside lights had been switched off. The great blades on their stubby wings revolved slowly, their eerie whistle loud in the clear, cold quiet. Wood creaked and groaned to itself, metal and canvas popped irregularly. A white, stylised skull gleamed on the tail, pale against the ship's darkness.
The lookouts shivered. Huddled in warm clothing they watched tensely, waiting for a glimpse of the brilliant lights that would mark the position of their target. They knew the passenger airship's approximate route and altitude; however it would be easy to miss it amongst the clouds. Mama would not be impressed if that happened.
Suddenly the siren blared. The lookout on top of the bird's head control room pointed excitedly. Mama, the pirates' huge captain, stormed onto the deck an
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Attention, Writers - This is important.
It's important, because the Scripts and Screenplays gallery is 99.9% full of crap.
This is a terrible state of affairs, and one which we, TheCabalists, aim to amend by offering you all a chance to win $US20 worth of points. How?
We are holding a competition.
This competition entails writing a three-act play.
One which, hopefully, will brighten the ghastly gloom of Scripts and Screenplays a little, as well as bringing you vast acclaim and much applause for making that gallery suck a little less. Oh, and $20 worth of points.
Never written a play? Never fear. It's not that hard. This series of articles should get you started.
Of course, there are rules to this competition, the non-observance of which will lead to the disqualification of your play, so read carefully:
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:bulletred: Entries MUST have been written specificall
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This is a Project: Educate article.
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Project Educate

Project Educate is on it's way with:
Gallery Segment Week
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Suture Vol. 10
Bookmark it. Download it. Print it.
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Go read.
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New Literature Reader Tools!
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Lit that goes Bump in the Night
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:pumpkin:
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The Artisan by ordie
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Writers block: fantasy or frustration?
Feature Article
Writer's Block: fantasy or frustration?
The term Writer's Block bothers me. It has become a catch-all phrase that hides a multitude of distractions, problems, preferences and emotions. The absurdity of the term is simply captured. How often have you seen deviants complain in their journal that they have writer's block?
How can they have writer's block if they are writing about it in their journal? Really?
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Activity


  • Reading: Hilary Mantel
  • Playing: piano
  • Drinking: 100 degrees proof Bowmore's
I almost managed not to write a new journal for two years. Amazing.

Amazing that I still visit from time to time and ghost a few journals, this and that.

Crept out of the woodwork to say hello to one or two other old hands still lurking about the place.

Hello.

deviantID

MinorKey
Paul
Artist | Professional | Literature
Australia
Hi. :) I'm Paul and I used to be the PROSE gallery director (a long time ago now).

Nowadays I'm a professional researcher. I work for a non-profit educational research company as an academic, more or less, and I design and manage quantitative and qualitative research based on winning competitive tenders. So much of my writing is lit reviews, reports, evaluations and so on.

I'm still trying to write reasonable fiction. I also play with 3d art but I haven't put any of that on dA.
Interests

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:iconlemontea:
lemontea Featured By Owner Jan 11, 2016
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:iconsqueakylex:
squeakylex Featured By Owner Jan 5, 2013  Hobbyist Artisan Crafter
happy birthday.
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:iconminorkey:
MinorKey Featured By Owner Jan 5, 2013  Professional Writer
thankyou :)
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:iconsqueakylex:
squeakylex Featured By Owner Jan 7, 2013  Hobbyist Artisan Crafter
you are so welcome.
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Lintu47 Featured By Owner Dec 24, 2012  Hobbyist Photographer
Merry Christmas! :santa:
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