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The A,B,C's of Literature
This week: Q



Welcome to another installment of the A,B,C's of Literature, a weekly article which brings you suggested themes and deviants who begin with a letter of the alphabet.

This week, we will be focusing on the letter Q and the themes this week are: Quilt, Queen, Question, Quill(s), Quiet

Quilt


The Man in the Coffee ShopThe man in the coffee shop
             Sitting by the window in a large overstuffed chair that you only find in a coffee shop or book store, is a young man with slightly- longer- than- buzz -cut dark hair with thick framed glasses outlining his hazel-ish eyes. Not thick in an ugly over the top way but in a sort of bookish happy way.
             His laptop sits open on a table to his left open to itunes with his head phones plugged in and clearly turned up loud enough to block out the sound around him. He wears a dark shirt with some writing or another crossed his chest and hanging around his neck is a large metal cross.
             The young man is hunched over deep in concentration. He is hand sewing a quilt. One side of the quilt is a sparkly purple with panels of kittens in a basket and b
A memory.A memory lingers,
Like smoke from a far away fire.
Its toxins invading my lungs,
Taking my breath away.
A memory lingers,
Haunting me,
Tempting me,
Teasing me.
Our fingers were entwined like the patterns of an old quilt,
And as time passed, separation screamed our names.
My ice cold hands reluctantly released hers.
My heart, as weak as it was, had pleaded to time:
"Oh please, just a little longer!"
But time, nor friend or enemy, did not comply.
Oh, how I yearned for her to love me like I loved her.
My heart, so long ago, only longed for hers.
Moments of Agonythese horrible images on
my walls terrify me
vivid memories of our
past shoot through my
brain like a pellet
through a tin can
you had no right to do
this to me.  painting these
morbid pictures on my
walls is just another
form of cruel torture
this patchwork quilt is
filthy.  designs by you
printed onto odd-shaped
cut-outs. you enjoy every
moment of my agony
please stop this obsession
of pain.  i could have loved
you, had you not done
this.  this was your doing
so face the consequences


Queen


Mature Content

My QueenLate was it to return back to how it used to be.  When I saw you standing there, I knew you’d be gone. The city streets fizzed by and the ivory with flames on top descended. That breakable doll, you, shattered before my eyes. Those emerald orbs haunt my unpleasant dreams now. These memories are too strong and my smile fades away, those pearls were only yours.
Was I not supposed to be part of your fairy tale?  Perfection eluded me, so was this my punishment? To know the truth would be a gift but you are always silent. The fall broke your voice box. So, I’ll bring gifts to you, day after day. Ruby flowers that melt with your flames are the gifts I’ve chosen for you. Back when I touched those soft flames I was sure you were happy.
The stars were so reachable when you lay at my side. I lassoed Mars for you because surely that was your home. Please, just look in my eyes again! Why didn’t you need me? Why didn’t you see me? Come back and hate me,
for the love of the Queenpure glory and powder
the sheer essence of regality imbued
into curvacious burgundy and emerald
the voice of a goddess
the words of furious passion
the eye of horus
we are at length unworthy
but at width enlightened
she speaks with charm
and boiling adulation
it makes us giddy
unsettling it seems
as all souls are hardened to blows
but her wounds glimmer
without marring her perfection
our queen,
the illustrious
Emerald Queen


Question


a questionsince when
after drowning
in smoke
am I mad?
Autobiography: Who Am I?Who am I? I've been asking myself that for a couple years now and I'm starting to see that it's much more difficult a question than anyone can ask a teenager in high school. A teenager doesn't know who they are any more than a grapefruit knows it's going to be someone's breakfast. But, because we are such adolescents, we attempt to explain, even if we realize as we write the paper for English 4 that we have nothing to our story other than school.
But school is all we have in those times. Our friends, rivals, teachers, librarians, and family are all we've ever known. These people help define us, shape us into the social creatures we are when we step off that stage, high school or college diploma in hand, and ready to face everything life has to throw at us. When I walked off that stage in high school, I was still unsteady. Yes, I had friends and they are all amazing people, but the friendships and social situations people grow up weren't the same for me as they were for most girls my ag
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Quill(s)


Quill's Dream by StellaDraco QuillA quivering quill
A brilliant plume
A brown, feathered edge
With grey speckled center
Like peppered cloth.
To tickle a chin
With a light, airy touch
A dark, straw-like bone
Leading down to the sharp
And cold metal pen.
Grasp the ink
Let it slip out
And bleed onto the page
And scratch the paper
Like the scrape
When you walk on cement.
And all the while
Feather fluttering
And metal twisting
The dark, black ink
Along the parchment.
Abstinence from Sex EducationSex education has been called many things by different people. Some change it to make it more professional because they are shy about it; while others change it to things more derogatory. However, despite the varied names, it means the same thing, educating people on the hazards and protections of sex. It is there to inform about protection and consequences. Sex education is usually taught in the senior year of high school. For the rest of the time in high school, students must go on what they learned in middle school and what they have heard. The majority of students get their information from the media, which is not always the most reliable source. So the question stands, how old should students be when they take sex education?
Though the administration may not want to believe it, but students are having pre-marital sex. Many of them are having it before they have sex education. This means they may not know the dangers and what to do to prevent the crisis. Many go by the myths that a


Quiet


in the quiet, kiss me.tell me why
tell me now that you could have loved me,  
that we might have been
something if
it were some other time.
please.
say the words,
even if it won't make it right.
lay down your sorrows,
forget that you
can't love me anymore.
break the night silence,
even with a whisper,
speak to me.
say that you'll be there for me,
the way that I
am always there
for you.
kiss me.
do it now, with no one else around.
quickly, silently,
close the gap between us;
pretend that
tomorrow
will not come.
because the past is gone
and I have to accept that.
because
tomorrow does come.
and think of all the joy -
and all the pain.
think of what will come
and what has passed.
and just imagine the heartbreak
and the tears.
forgive me.
forgive me for all the sins that I have committed.
against you,
against myself.
forgive me,
and your forgiveness is more than I can bear.
I will carry it to a darker place,
where there is strife,
and t
i was so good at being quiet.you're alarmed, you're not armed so
you're screaming answers with
out questions and definitions
without words.
you learned it's best to bleed
it out, but you left your
knife behind, these wounds are
battle scars and nothing less.
but nothing more.
here we go you're lying on
your back screaming hallelujah
like the hypocrite you always
swore you'd never become,
just like your mother and her
family.
i taught you how to bleed properly, it's
better to have someone else do it
for you because then you can say you
were hurt and not suicidal all
this time.
you'll call them battle scars.
we'll call them your throne of lies.
you were lost until no one found you,
so you gave up on anything and
everything you ever
believed in.
give up.
give up.
give up.
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:star: My Favourite Piece
A piece selected from the above featured
in the quiet, kiss me.tell me why
tell me now that you could have loved me,  
that we might have been
something if
it were some other time.
please.
say the words,
even if it won't make it right.
lay down your sorrows,
forget that you
can't love me anymore.
break the night silence,
even with a whisper,
speak to me.
say that you'll be there for me,
the way that I
am always there
for you.
kiss me.
do it now, with no one else around.
quickly, silently,
close the gap between us;
pretend that
tomorrow
will not come.
because the past is gone
and I have to accept that.
because
tomorrow does come.
and think of all the joy -
and all the pain.
think of what will come
and what has passed.
and just imagine the heartbreak
and the tears.
forgive me.
forgive me for all the sins that I have committed.
against you,
against myself.
forgive me,
and your forgiveness is more than I can bear.
I will carry it to a darker place,
where there is strife,
and t

in the quiet, kiss me. by 369dreamergirl




:spotlight-left: Spotlight Deviants :spotlight-right:



:iconquemaqua: Quemaqua
to long for robberyin a world gone afraid for life and love,
there is no fear in your hopeful crime,
no condition that must be met
to see us outlaws desperate
and dying.  we've already arrived
with six-shooters spitting heat
like madness unbidden through the winds
of a deadpan, imagined Texas.  they thrust rock
and dust into the cracks between our teeth.
I love you for all your tempting me
into snake pits and bar fights.
those hips, that smile, that shotgun
blast of eye-light, those lips that whisper
love and gunsmoke,
pour them over me like sand that walks
with water in its swagger.
the crags that loom above us
speak in solemnities, but we shout
only anarchy, rebellious waves that shatter
canyons under our weight as we reconcile.
ride me into grand abandon as
all the herds of Abaddon drive
their hard paths into Hell.  let us paint
the sky in Armageddon, love until
the earth burns, churn the dirt under
wicked hips that live in rose thorn
staccato, fervent for our decision
th
words like good winethese words bounce against my head
in our gypsy dance.  I relish the slapping
of your costume's coins against my clothes.
we smell of gunpowder and sweet grass roasted
under Jewish suns and hot pagan moons
fiddled tunes are tossed like wood chips,
black tuning key notes that dazzle slowly
beside burnt incense and cheaply grasped glasses
that smile with petty gems on ruddy brows.
these words
are
far better than the wine
speak to me your more liquid romance
that roils like antifreeze crystals in the belly,
sharp and unforgettable.  gift
me the windy image, the current blowing
through eyelids that pass
over magic so much more
Schizophriendsyou created other selves
insisting on their
                         precise
separation from the whole
deny it now and I call you Liar:
their hands       yours
                 are
you thought yourself a man of God
born of sod, created
loved and blood-bought
                                   but
there are thieves in your dust
the men of masking pleasures live
like vomit in your guts
so inflated with genocide and cholesterol
your very own axe-wielding maniacs
of snuff films and cheeseburgers
you made them to carry
your trespasses so you could live
    


:iconqueenhrosie: queenhrosie


:iconquietcritic: QuietCritic

Mature Content

Limston AbbeyIt is, perhaps, true that we are all born free, and yet are everywhere in chains; and it is also perhaps true that some can roam wherever they wish.  But for those with wanderlust, given all the places to go and sights to see in the world, Limston Abbey would seem a prison.
Certainly the monastery, perched on a rocky island overlooking the bay, offers abundant views of the world outside: but, linked to the mainland by a single causeway that sinks beneath each high tide, the vistas of the sea only serve to remind the visitor of what it means to be cloistered: to see solitude from solitude.  A church bounded by dormitories, bounded by buttresses, bounded by walls, bounded by shoals and then bounded by water looks out onto a vast horizon from which it is locked away.
Circumscribed in those ramparts, the abbey has all it needs: for the thirsting tongue and hungering stomach, rigid gardens and hidden wells; for the inquiring mind and yearning spirit, a library to read an
Overtures: Scene 5The Changeling’s face leers into a large mirror framed in filigree, supported before him by one of many marble sculptures lining the hall.  Through this surface Flynn can see both his face and the back of his head redoubled in countless other similar mirrors lining the corridor, each a different size or shape, held at a slightly different angle so as to reflect the light from the windows in as many directions as possible.
Indeed, the effect is kaleidoscopic: the richly framed baroque mirrors rest in their statues’ hands, doubling and redoubling the shafts of sunlight slanting from the tall windows, every drapery drawn back so as to admit maximum illumination.  The craftsmen who carved these sculptures ensured that each was unique, each here a beautiful youth clad in thin drapery that clings to their contours revealingly—as though wet— as they recline lazily against the enormous mirrors they bear.
Quite a far cry from his formerly collected self,

Mature Content






Thank you to all the deviant suggestions and theme suggestions from pullingcandy rockgem Memnalar LadyLincoln Created-By-Caz AlecWolfe Vashta-Nerada91 TheLupineOne GirlWithAHat  PaperDart LilaJanet TheseKrimzonFlames williamfdevault Magic-fan
Remember you can suggest a theme or deviant to me via note, or if you have someone for the next feature then please let me know




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:iconyouinventedme:
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner Feb 10, 2011   Writer
thanks for including me.
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:iconthe-photographicpoet:
the-photographicpoet Featured By Owner Feb 10, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
you're welcome :)
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:iconmaytheflower:
maytheflower Featured By Owner Feb 10, 2011
well thank you very much!
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February 7, 2011
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