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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 20 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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Random Favourites

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The Lit Community gets real
People on both the lit forum and in recent news articles are (as usual) spending time whinging about lit on dA. (eg http://fav.me/n121227)
The whinge is either that lit is not well supported here, or that writers don't get read and critiqued. Unfortunately, these two areas are often conflated, the assumption being that if lit was better supported in terms of features, writers would be better read and better critiqued.
This is wishful thinking. Let me explain.
What most people want on here is either a. to have people read their work, or b. to have people critique their work. Big difference.
Group A are not really interested in improving their craft. They want people to fav them and say 'wow' this is great - they already think they write well (most don't, most don't edit either). Nobody (except a few friends) is going to spend time reading their work, no matter how nicely laid out their portfolio is, or how tweaked the critique function becomes.
Group B are here to learn. They make frien
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Journal
'Yarn Raising' Critique Event - With Int
Reaction to the first Yarn Raising Party was extraordinary, and I think the time is right for another go.
What's that? What am I talking about? Maybe I should back up a bit and cover the basics:
:bulletred::bulletblue: The Basics :bulletblue::bulletred:
Harkening back to Ye Olden Times when folks would gather for miles around to help a neighbor build a barn in an event called a "barn raising", a Yarnraising works on the same principle. Instead of barns, we're raising pieces of writing. Instead of boards and nails, we're using as much critique and feedback as we can muster.
Here's how it works: I'll highlight a piece of writing that has "good bones" but wants improvement, and ask you to read it carefully and give thorough, honest and constructive feedback. The writer will be on board with this, and will welcome your commentary with open arms and ready pen.
After about a week, the writer and I will pick the mo
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Journal
Fable Me This! Literature Contest: Results
The winners for the Fable Me This! Literature Contest contest are finally announced! Many thanks to those who entered. With more than thirty entries, it became hard to decide the top five entries and I had to choose certain pieces over other ones based on a few key points. I judged based on brevity, insight, general creativity, clear presentation of a moral, the "it" factor, and whether or not the piece "felt" like a fable (rather than a fairy tale, etc.). There definitely was one piece that stood out amongst all the others.
Please congratulate orphicfiddler for her first place win. Her fable entitled The Rat and the Doll hit all the right spots for me. In second and third place, we have PaperDart's The Fox's Dinner and Nordica93's Fable:
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7 Counterarguments to 7 Reasons Why Bases Rock
I noticed recently that there was an article about why bases traced from anime artwork should be acceptable by the DeviantArt community, which can be found here: http://news.deviantart.com/article/119470/. While there is already an article featuring counterarguments, if you don't mind, I'd like to voice my own. Disagree if you will.
Now bases aren't a bad thing; there are many well-designed original pixel bases that pixel artists can use in their own original pixel designs, and that can be very helpful. There are also original body bases drawn to help people flesh out their own characters and whatnot. These are perfectly fine because they are ORIGINAL: the creator made them entirely on his/her own for the sole purpose of being used by others for reference, reference being the key word. The images that these "bases" the author of the original article speaks of are being traced from were not made for this purpose. Let me make some specific counter-points:
1. That's great that they're hav
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Literature
The cad who writes
he's a proper taleweaver, that one;
will spin you a fable of tavern-smoke thread.
          so she said, blowing smoke of her own
          to chase itself across the narrow bench,
          rambling up the air to play tug-o'-war
          with the bartender's nostrils

he coughed up a story once, belched it
out into a carnival of fancy dress parties
and cocktail soirees; splashed their shoes
with his muck. he metaphored on their carpets
and they thanked him for it.
          she drank her own metaphor,
          put another handful of them on the bench
          and watched a motif puddle
       
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Mature content
The Bibles -internets edishun :iconfleeet:fleeet 2,130 806
Journal
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:
The Hows & Whens
:bulletred: The play will consist of three acts. More, if you like, but NO LESS.
:bulletred: Entries MUST have been written specificall
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Journal
deviantART Presents: Critique!
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You asked for it and we listened! Devious Technology is proud to officially announce the recent launch of deviantART's newest feature – Critique. In response to community demand, Critique is designed to help artists get in-depth, critical feedback and commentary on their work.

As an artist, thoughtful feedback on your work will help stimulate creative growth, and participating in Critique also draws special attention to your deviations. As an art enthusiast, Critique offers a way to connect with your favorite artists on a whole new level and offers you a path to recognition and regard as a cr
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Journal
Harper Collins + Internet = Writers Win
Today marks the public opening of an online talent seeking / gathering site by HarperCollins, a publishing house with dozens of imprints whose credits include work by Neal Stephenson, Michael Crichton, William Gibson, Neil Gaiman, Paulo Coelho, Lemony Snicket, Clive Barker, Michael Chabon, Nobel Prize winner Doris Lessing, and heaps more.
It seems the colossal publisher is embracing the trend of technology and decentralized popularity in art. Their site authonomy, fresh out of private beta, uses a peer review and recommendation system to find the cream of the internet-lit crop, which they hope is tasty enough to publish, like, for realz.
From the site:
If you’re a writer, authonomy is the place to show your face – and show off your work on the web. Whether you’re unpublished, self-published or just getting started, all you need is a few chapters to start building your profile online, and start connecting with the authonomy community.
And if you’
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Journal
Unreal City: The Lit Forums
This is a Project: Educate article.
Couched away amid a hundred branches of Other Important Things, the Literature Forums on dA remain a hidden haven for...
Okay, that's just ridiculous.  Let's be frank.  The Literature Forums on dA, comprised of the Poetry and Prose Forum, the Fantasy Literature Forum, and the Lit Workshop, have long been considered a clique-riddled wasteland, unfriendly to newcomers and nonconformists (irony) alike.  Threads tend to degrade rather quickly into a ream of inside jokes and insults, with every other post lauding the beauty of the "good old days" when there were actually "good writers" on dA.  Historically, rather than being a place for writers helping writers, it's a case of writers baiting
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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:
:iconbradut2::iconfur12:
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