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old canvas shoesthirteen, and she's knocking chips off the corner
kicking the kerb with old canvas shoes.
she's daydreaming, lying back on the tarmac
yellow hair over yellow lines
no cars coming any time soon.
two years later, and dreams fell to dust
she's breaking her fingernails
trying to prise life from death.
time is too expensive to waste -
she's costing her days out with scars.
fast forward, she's streamlined, scared;
trawling the backstreets for affection,
she scrawls her wishes on alley walls.
there's a knife in her pocket, working
she's free when the night glitters deadly.
stumbling, lashing out, and he's holding her
but she's unlucky thirteen again
nothing will hurt her, nothing now.
the next day, they scrape his life from the pavement,
search for her, wonder what went wrong.
beautiful peopletoday, you noticed me.
scratching your nails on a
table surface, you frowned
at the flaccid sandwich you held
and asked where
the pretty patterns on my arms
came from. i lied.
'they've always been there'
i said, and added a self-deprecating
'i have weird arms' for
it strikes me a
little odd that you've
known me all this time
and never once noticed
the webbing of scars
lining my arms.
it strikes me a
little odd that you
think they're pretty.
but then, i suppose,
the ugliest things often seem
the most beautiful, and
beautiful people (like you,
my dear, like you)
do the ugliest things.
Violet - 01The sound of gunshots woke me. Forget cold water and alarm clocks there's a lot less trouble coming back to reality when someone's firing a revolver above your head.
I'd been sleeping in an alleyway round behind the City Hall. It was difficult for your regular waifs and strays to get into, due to the armed guards at either side, but I'd done Jimmy a favour once, and he was more than willing to let me in, provided I slept somewhere he could keep an eye on me.
Seems an awful lot of trouble to go just to find somewhere to sleep, right? Normally, I'd agree. But recently, I'd been having trouble with unwanted visitors. Not the law, although they came frequently enough. These visitors would be standing over me when I woke, and would disappear before reality had quite settled back into my mind. I never remembered their faces.
For a while, I'd thought they were the last vestiges of a dream, and then, when they were always there, I thought I was going mad. That was until one of them deci
a christmas listyou're missing
the distractions of your watch and
the second chance you lost when
you were spitting blood into the sink and it
slipped away down the drain. i'm just
for christmas, i don't want
my two front teeth, or that
embroidered cushion you threatened
me with. i don't want anymore
partridges or pear trees, because
my garden is full already and those birds
keep shitting on my car.
i want a piece of a word carved
into mahogany wood. i want the planes
of your chest under my hands, or
the soft brush of lips in my dreams.
i want to sleep and not wake up until
the sky is as purple and bruised as
lenten robes, or until someone
has dug out the dull pit of anger
resting in my stomach.
you can't eat me till that's gone, you know.
you have a row of russian dolls
on your mantelpiece and you told me
how you liked the way they were layered.
you can shrink off their skins like
the scales of an onion, you said,
shedding them, and the last motion,
the epilogue, the smallest doll, that'
004you're sat on the edge
of a table, legs swinging,
like you're about to jump
from a precipice.
only i know that
you're already falling.
and you're shooting up
with sunshine because
it gives you a shiver and
the shakes you can't
get away from.
forgive my indiscretions.
i always wanted to dance, but
i never had the rhythm.
003timing was always a
problem for me. comical
for everyone else, i couldn't help
but trip over solemnity,
or scatter silence with my
two left feet. you were the
holding me up as time and again,
i stumbled. you were the reason
i sprang up again each time,
but when the sunflowers sprang up
upon your grave,
their seeds fell,
sprouted, flowered again.
years drifted by and i
let you go.
The Cartographer's DaughterEvery night, he would fold her into his arms before she slept. Creases grew into her, turning brown with wear, and she loved them. When she woke up in the night, dreaming of darkness, he would take her to his desk and draw for her a map of her face, turning it into another world. Tracing the contours of her smile, he would scrawl a warning, "Here be monsters", whispering to her that she was a dragon when angry.
As she grew older, she populated his maps with creatures and peoples from the books she read, or her own creations. He taught her to draw, and to write with an old inkpen, in a cursive script her teacher could make neither head nor tail of. She made him angry once, drawing in the drying sand with her finger, and smudging the ink. When he was angry, mountain ranges grew across his forehead and caverns opened in his cheeks. Here be lions.
Walking home from school, she knew the local area inside out; from the maps he had drawn and taught her. He would copy them onto o
absurditiesthe way that
my dreams of you are
more real than you
and the way my heart
never skips beats
except when my hands
are brushing ivory keys
the way that
i can tell your thoughts
in a second and not
give a damn that you
don't love me anymore
because i forgot how to live
but i never forgot
how to dream.
the way that
forever slipped past us,
sinking down the windowpane
through gaps in the rain
and the way my anger
only ever burst out when
there's nothing to be
the way that
trees bow towards you and
desperation slinks in your
shadow and the way i try
to feel close to you even
when you're not here and
the way your name is
always on the tip of my tongue but
never actually trips
from my mouth.
and the way that
everyone else moves on and i
am still clinging to those few
months, limpet-like, and
the way that that
is all that matters.
wordsmithartistically temperamental, you
scatter shakespeare in your wake,
rhythmic words undulating from
you are a wordsmith.
capture my eyes in a phrase, or
two little syllables (i'm yours).
your voice gathers my words from
paper and lifts them, shooting them
higher, spinning in circles of
crazy and orbits of action.
you have always been the verb to
my quiet noun.
A Guide to Writing DialogueWhat is dialogue, exactly? The definition from Merriam-Webster’s dictionary was several lines long, so I shall summarize it in a short sentence for the sake of the readers; it’s the writing that illustrates conversations between two or more characters in a story. We read and hear it all around us, but creating it in your own work can be a challenge. However, if you find dialogue an obstacle in your writing, then don’t push the panic button. In this tutorial, you’ll find by analyzing what dialogue can do and how to use it, you can turn your greatest fear into your greatest ally in your story.
What dialogue is
Like I’ve asserted before, dialogue is basically what the characters are saying to each other. It can be found in multiple mediums such as books, movies, comics, video games, etc. We even engage in dialogue daily without even thinking. When you talk to your best friend, a co-worker, or even your dog, you create dialogue. It’s exchang
Keep in Touch!
Endorell-Taelos is very well known within the community for her selfless giving and gracious community spirit. Since joining DeviantART over seven years ago, Alicia has continued to make a positive impact on many deviants. Her helpful and thoughtful approach was one of her finest attributes when serving as a Community Volunteer, and this has continued throughout the many contests which Alicia provides on a regular basis. As we approach our Birthday celebrations, we can't... Read More