The Ladies of Lit: Volume XX

Apr 7, 201247 min read

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Published: Apr 7, 2012

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Welcome to volume twenty my Literature series, The Ladies of Lit!

The premise here is simple. Below you will find an assortment of Literature features from a selection of female deviants here on DeviantART, all of them suggested by you. In this article, you will also find a variety of other things of interest, including:

An array of bonus features from five of our previous articles showcasing some of your favorite female writers in celebration of our twentieth volume of Ladies of Lit.

A ladies themed mini-contest with a few extra goodies.

This article’s deviant spotlight: featuring the talented Magic-fan. She has offered to answer a few questions as well, to tell us a bit about what inspires her writing and which piece in particular she favors.

Additional information about our upcoming events, including a special critique Q and A session in our official TheLadiesofLit chatroom. And we also have a selection of other interesting Literature news links to share with you.

Our “meet our contributors” section. Be sure to note me if you would like to volunteer your services or offer additional suggestions as to how to improve this series.

We also have a new series format for this news article, due to recent DeviantART website changes. Deviants are still able to

this journal, so please take a moment to do so, to continue to show your support for our devious writers.

Now – On With the Features!

LittlestFish
The Architect's DaughterGrowing up, the drafting table was a strange contraption lording over the basement and over the crown of her then small head.  As she slowly came to understand the table's function, it came to teach her that A) work and home are inseparable, and B) the world is flat.  Skyscrapers collapse into thin piles of layered printer paper and torn, pen-marked transparency sheets.  Mountains and forests reduce to stacked shapes.  Fathers compile into cramped calendars.
Now the early lessons are thoroughly embedded.  Art and architecture are inseparable in her mind.  The easel is her own table, similar to a draughtsman's and yet completely different in the ways that matter.  She is not a draughtswoman or a designer.  Instead, exactly like children imitate their parents naïvely, she plays at being an architect, mimicking the actions but doing them backwards.  Architects use flat means to create real objec The Last DreamerBack when Evelyn Taylor and most people still had daddies, she used to lean on hers in the dark after he'd passed out, steal his potato chips, and watch hours of television about men moving, selling, picking, and pawning trash.  She'd never pictured herself as the type.  She'd been a little girl in pigtails with too many plastic ponies.  Somehow, though, she'd become something that her daddy, had he lived, would have scorned: a scavenger.  "Billy," she drawled into a sat-phone she'd lifted off a telecom factory floor.  The sun, moon, and stars could all drop dead, but so long as there were satellites floating, Taylor Trades Inc. was open for business, and she had freedom.  Or so she told herself.  "What kind of idiot do you think I am?"
"C'mon, Evie.  Where's the trust?"  His voice was hollow even as he said it.
She snorted.  "Out as far as I can throw you, and gee, I've got these puny l BultunginI have one of those faces—the lying faces.  It's a pleasant front of unblemished skin with pores and a few gouging dimples for the sake of authenticity.  The scars don't show.  No one even looks, because who expects to find scars on the inside?
If I were inside-out, if they were visible, there would be two razor thin lines lancing down across the hollows of my cheeks, each falling just short of a corner of the mouth, and above, at the base of each cheekbone, a sharp puncture made ragged by repetition.  It's a clown's face, all Pierrot tears and Gotham grin.  That's me: repressed artiste and psychopath.  I'm the monster behind the mask.  I'm the big bad wolf, and yes, such big sharp teeth have I.  They cut, they scrape, and with every polite smile, every forcibly restrained snarl, those teeth slice deeper, ripping, scarring, digging closer to the surface.  They'll never breach, I'm not that th

_{Suggested by: SadisticIceCream

“LittlestFish is a visual artist, but she is also an emerging writer to watch. The ways in which traditional art inform her work is clear: she has the ability to paint pictures with her words, putting a microscope to her characters and their situations. And she's got a great ear for dialogue to boot.”}

Mercury-the-Queen
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_{Suggested by: dreamsinstatic

“Mercury-the-Queen's work is both beautiful and challenging. It can take the reader into the depths of despair, or the highest peak of ecstasy, all the while urging them onward with bated breath.”}

AzizrianDaoXrak
Robin Red-Breast, the Devil and MeRobin red-breast
sold his soul for a song,
cast a bundle of his scarlet feathers
on the forest floor.
The Devil stole the whole forest-full of birdsongs,
dressed them up with a bit of glitter
and holds them crumpled in his fists—
hostages for weary souls.
In a forest of silent throats
Robin red-breast sings with downcast eyes.
And I—
landspirit, windspirit am I—
running twig fingers through hair
red as fire,
I'll make ribbons of rose petals,
catch the clouds in a bucket
and make room for Robin red-breast
to nest in my branches.
I'll cut up the Devil
and I'll cut him up again,
release the wickedness
like cracking hazelnut shells,
burn up song-souls—
primroses and plague victims—
and scatter their ashes in the mountains
so their owners can find them again.
Lo—
the little red-breasted devil carries them to market
Delirium Sings a Song for MeYesterday I was a little girl
with blueberry stains on my fingers.
But today—I am
simply mad,
a Baba Yaga in the woods,
standing tall on knobbly chicken legs,
making stews of children's hearts.
Beware the magic-weavers in the dark.
But I must be a siren, too—
with salt on my lips and flowers in my hair,
but with eyes black, black as crows.
Beware our sing-songs, little one.
Surely I am a cello.
Play me like an instrument—
my body is no longer me.
Strip me down to my bare bones and tell me,
what am I?
I have a face but no substance beneath.
That drumming you hear in my naked ribcage
can only be the sea.
I have no identity.
I am a creature of the air,
rash and whimsy,
distant, intimate—
ancient.
My mind is the green-purple gray
of the nights before stars.
My heart grows cold, my heart grows cold.
Already old, already old.
A mad girl's mind is awful drear,
and I've got fishes in my hair,
yes, I've got fishes in my hair.
Won't you take my hand, Alice dear.
We are nearly LimbsI am barely more than a thought, and yet -
I am everything,
at once ghost and creature
crawling ghoul-like and monstrous from nightmare depths.
I am comprised entirely
of your words and fears -
a collection of scraps, jumbled bones and epithets.
I was not born as magazine photographs.
I am not metal and cut glass,
nor am I smooth, swift acrylics -
I am not a painting.
I will not be beaten and used,
but neither will I be your porcelain doll.
No -
at times I am merely a bird,
wings beating against the wires of my cage.
But at times I am also Yggdrasil itself,
with deep, deep roots and limbs
holding the worlds themselves.
Once I was a vessel,
both chalice and flaming sword.
I have been ridden by the gods,
I have been hills and mountains,
and my seas go on forever.
There is a magic in me that frightens you,
something fierce and primal
that will not be contained.

_{Suggested by: LadyofGaerdon

“AzizrianDaoXrak's writing is masterful, lyrical, mythical and unforgettable. Her style is rich and unique, but she is always eager to challenge herself, the result of which is distinct, fresh, enthralling literature that never fails to linger in the reader's mind.”}

SCFrankles
Tallulah the Drama QueenTallulah was a beautiful and charming young woman, with hair as red as an autumn leaf, as black as a winter night, as blue as a stormy sea. Depending on how the mood and the hair dye took her. She was also intelligent and highly ambitious. As soon as she was old enough, she went out into the world to seek her fortune.
Unfortunately, this didn't work out and she came back home to live with her parents. It wasn't a happy situation for any of them, and one day Tallulah returned to the house to find the locks changed and her bag packed, with a housing benefit application form tucked into the handle. She took the hint, and went and sought cheap, rented accommodation.
She found it in a semi-detached house owned by a completely detached man. Jack was quite old – even older than her parents. At least fifty. After she'd been lodging with him for a few weeks, she realised that no friends ever came to visit, he never spoke to his neighbours, he never spoke on the phone. He seemed uncomforta Trouble in Paradise"Adam..."
"Dearest?"
"You're not my type." Green FingersUnexpectedly,
Glorious chrysanthemums.
I'd planted carrots...

_{Suggested by: anapests-and-ink

“She has a gallery full of wonderfully humorous six word stories, and thoughtful (often also humorous) short stories.”}

Ladies of Lit: A Retrospective, Part II

We have had several wonderful volumes packed full of talented deviants. Below you will find a few spotlighted from some of our newest articles that were your favorites, and also an assortment of features from our previous spotlight writers.

zebrazebrazebra

_{Suggested by: wyldhoney

“Sarah is a fantastic writer with a keen eye for entertaining stories and a great understanding of her craft.”}

MermyLeDisko

_{Suggested by: ATrue

“MermyLeDisko was once a very active member of the literature community. While she has since disappeared, her writings remain to haunt us. A mix of melancholy and sunshine, her poetry tackles tough subjects thoughtfully and eloquently and her gallery has something for everyone.”}

Solarune
AntesWe are We, the Hunters of greatest knowledge and spell-blood. We use spell-words to hunt and to Change our bodies to rocks or trees. It has long been forbidden to Change to other Hunters or Hunted, or to kill others of We; yet it happened, and without it We would not be living.
This is that tale.
This is a tale from before the Fire, before the Dark, when the world was still green and the sky was still blue.
We had a Pack in the north, running free under the moon. The hunt was good. The Pack was strong and the prey was weak. The prey was a Hunter, a small running-Hunter; and so he turned, hissing spell-words, but he was claw- and tooth-strong, not spell-strong.
The Pack closed in. The youngest drew first blood, hissing. Wait, the running-Hunter hissed in simple-speak, but the Pack would not wait after a wounding, and they sprang upon him; yet his flesh was familiar. The youngest shrieked as the blood on her claw turned black. It was not running-Hunter blood, but spell-bloo On The Division Of The SunAt some point, there is a moment where you have to step back from everything and lock your mind onto the first thing that crosses it. Me, I thought I heard the wind smiling. So I listened to it, and thought, this isn't so bad.
Until the weight of Splittime cracked it open, and I was back reeling in the
steel forest, holding a wrist made of sharp bones. Hak's bones were so thin that I could feel their shapes in my fingers. I could see his skin dragging like loose blinds.
"I go no further," he said, and his voice was like reeds jumping in the rain.
Close to Splittime, there is no visible change, but you can almost feel Lightset preparing to shut itself off. It always disorients me. I know, of course, why it's done, and I know our bodies can survive Darkhalf, and we won't even remember it until we wake up again, and I know the new world won't get any sunlight if it doesn't happen –
– but I still hate it.
"Don't be afraid," Hak said, when my eyes started to shutter for the Three WindowpanesI.
The city smokes in mirrors on an autumn day,
sewing sky patches. A dying leaf baking veins on
fire blocks and chimneys hashing wire over
the river. Old dyer staining all her clothes;
sunset braids and rust on roofs. The day
packs itself up, like powder.
II.
Midnight knows itself deeply, an abstraction
by the streetlights sketching out people and a bridge
holding them, or a cloud? They are split by squares,
and words and the shadow on the river-skin a rippling
flag. Scaffolds knot necks between the stars and
they are bare, for only the moon to comfort.
III.
Morning shadows the streets inverted, or perhaps
it was like that before. The sunrise is a butter-knife
smeared in marmalade: drained through roses, through
the river, and a hundred alleyways no-one sees
stitched in like eyes, breathy with the expectation
of the city weave pulling people-threads of laughter.

_{Suggested by: angelStained

“Solarune's writing is firmly, steadily filling to read and spread over a sweet range of genres. She never fails to make me stop, sit down and read for a long time.”}

WriterOfStuff
Secrets By MoonlightThe moon shone on her dancing in such a way, I found myself reliving the night we met. She was an English major at the college I attended and I was nothing more than an admirer under the guise of a music student. Or, that's what I became the first moment I saw her blonde hair bounce on her shoulders and her playful, blue-eyed gaze intersect with mine. Something inside of me stirred that could have been explained as mere appreciation of her stunning body if she and I were the same kind of being. But we weren't and Phoebe didn't realize that yet.
I knew I had to tell her. I had to tell her soon.
Phoebe said I looked different than the other guys. I couldn't tell the difference because other men in their mid-twenties seemed to look the same as I did. My chestnut hair and my brown eyes didn't scream of anything unusual. I appeared to be human enough that nobody noticed the moments when a bit of yellow crept into my irises and I reserved my otherworldly moments for the privacy of my apartme G.C.W. - Chapter One, Pt. 1Chapter One, Pt. 1
“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.” ~ Marcel Proust
It was the headache that woke me up, but when moving caused a sharp pain to shoot from my shoulder to my upper arm, I knew I had really done it to myself this time. I didn't know where I was. Didn't remember for the life of me what happened last night. All I could say with any certainty was that I was alive and returning to the real world after one hell of a strange trip into dream land.
I knew it was daylight by the way the warmth of the sun rained down on me, but wasn't ready to open my eyes just yet. The moment I did, I'd be greeted by a screaming chorus of sunshine blaring right into my face and with how hungover I felt, only misery would follow from here. Instead, I paused to take stock of myself, as though assuring myself I still had all of my mental faculties.
My name was Charlotte Mary Walker, I remembered that much. I was born A Very Bad BoyMichael always enjoyed the rain.
The first drops hit his face as he gazed heavenward, allowing himself a pleasured grin at the way it felt upon his skin. Tiny beads of water; almost tears to make up for ones he could no longer manufacture and not due to any physiological reasons either. Rather, Michael was much beyond tears at that point in his long and varied existence. One needed to experience sorrow – or in this case, regret – in order to permit themselves such mortal trivialities.
He never had much cause for either. Quite a pity for the girl sitting next to him.
A park bench and a dark, urban forest enclosed by metal gates and shortened fences that looked more decorative than intimidating to the populace. A bustling metropolis full of ants marching in time to minutes passing by like sand sinking inside an hourglass and he was mercifully bereft of all their worries. In here. His home away from home where the humans either had no worries or feared the very spectres of their

_{Suggested by: safia3

“Their completed novel, "Eyes of the Seer," is a vampire story at its core, but you can throw out all cliches. It's so well written, and Flynn is a complex character, a man who's both gritty and sleek, who's been delivered into his new life by a delicious coven of classy, sophisticated, sharp-dressing blood drinkers in the modern day city of Philadelphia. The rest of her gallery is a just as high quality. She has two other novels in the works and a series of amazing short stories and poetry.”}

leyghan
How much do you love?The day he came home with blood on his shoes, he'd been gone for almost a week. She looked at him with anxious eyes, his grim face and sad eyes and did not ask the question that trembled on her tongue. Instead she asked another question. "Are we moving?"
He almost broke then. Regret, self-pity, love, anger and despair warred for dominance, made a brief rictus of his beloved face. Then he nodded once, not trusting himself to speak.
"Okay, it won't take me long to pack."
He stared at her, noted the set of her shoulders and the look of resolve on her face as she shoved away from the table where she'd been sitting with a cup of tea. She approached him, bare feet slapping lightly on floor and for a moment, he thought that she would strike him ― it was after all what he deserved but instead, she launched herself into his arms.
He held her for a long time, grateful that he still could, that she understood. She knew all of his secrets, his weaknesses. She now knew the extent You Can Say That Again*Flash fiction Island style
I
Jesus saves!  I cast you out in the name of Jesus!  So screams the preacher man slamming his palm against foreheads to drive out demons.  Not more than a few feet away from the pulpit, an eighteen year-old member of his congregation claps her hands and shouts hallelujah!
Jesus' name is again invoked a few days later as they lay sweating and groaning in the back seat of a rented car.
-See me and come live with me is two different ting
II
The girl is pretty in an unrefined way, brash and loud and totally unselfconscious.
Baby powder coats her neck, chest and back, visible in her low cut top.
Her rival, five years her senior, cuts her eye in contempt. 'Country booboo,' she thinks. 'She look like fish ready to fry.  Plus she skin ashy and she look like she doan know how to use hot-comb.'
Despite her belief in her superiority, her man doesn't come back.
-Puss and dog no have d ThirstyThe evening sweats
a bottle
rum dark
throttled by
daddy's hands
small feet drags
thirsty heart
outside
to swig the moon

_{Suggested by: xlntwtch

“The multi-talented leyghan writes many forms of literature, all with her own particular, lilting, yet very focused style to show the world around her exactly as she see it..”}

Molly-Snicklefritz
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_{Suggested by: Tobaeus

“Not only does Molly-Snicklefritz’s prose fully immerse the reader into the world she's created, but her poetry is just as amazing.”}

ThornyEnglishRose
The Golden Age UnwoundCharles had been king of England from the cradle.  He did not remember his mother, Queen Mary.  All he was able to learn about her was that she was devoted to God, and had burned hundreds of Protestants during her short reign.  Now Charles's father, King Philip II of Spain, carried on this great work.  He hoped to rid not only England but all Europe of the new religion.
'Do you know,' Charles's aunt Elizabeth said to him, 'you can stop him any time you want to.  You are the king.'
'But he is my father,' said Charles, then seven years old.
He was given possession of his mother's rosary, and told that it had first belonged to his grandmother, Katherine of Aragon.  People who had known his mother told him always to hold it when he said his Hail Marys, so he did.
'Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed art thou and blessed am I, the fruit of thy womb.'
Once, he allowed Elizabeth to hear this secret prayer.  Smiling, she strok MermaidShe was hauled up by a fishing vessel out catching cod.  The fishermen retired on the money they made, and Birds Eye had to find a new supplier, while the managers of San Diego Zoo thought of how to make the most of their new attraction.  They knew they could charge thousands to start with.  Then once all the millionaires had seen her they reduced it to hundreds and, finally, affordable prices with discounts on family tickets.
Years passed, and the mermaid was no longer bringing in any more money than the Panda Research Station.  After much um-ing and ah-ing, a management intern pointed out that baby animals always bring in the customers.  For some time the managers discussed whether it would be worth the expense of sending out a fishing vessel to try and catch a merman.
'But even if we got one,' somebody said, 'there's no saying she'd mate with him.'
This was hotly debated.  Some argued that the mermaid had a human head and t TildaWhen I was six, my dad started going out with a woman called Laura.  As soon as he told me about her, I decided that I wasn’t going to like her, but somehow Dad knew I had decided that and told me to give her a chance.
‘I still miss your mum,’ he said, ‘and I still love her very much, just like you do.  But I love Laura as well, and it isn’t her fault your mum died, so you mustn’t take it out on her.  She doesn’t want to be your mother - she only wants to be your friend.  And I think you should let her try.’
It was very difficult for me to accept that another woman was coming into our lives, because after Mum died it had just been me and Dad for three whole years.  I was only little when she died, but I remembered everything.  I especially remembered how much she, Dad and I all loved each other.  When it was just me and Dad, it was almost like it was still me and Dad and Mum.

_{Suggested by: Vigilo

“ThornyEnglishRose is a lovely and refreshingly original storywriter - her style is capturing and carrying, so that even the shortest work from her will always end in me reading it more than once.”}

scarletbird
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_{Suggested by: LadyofGaerdon

“scarletbird's writing is so strong and clear - simply reading her vivid prose is enough to inspire her lit community peers to improve. With her absolute mastery of the craft, she sets the bar high for us all.”}

aprilwednesday
wanderlustshe was a  s e v e n t e e n  year old girl from nowhere [or was it everywhere?] with dark hair and long eyelashes and skin that was always pale white. when she was young she played in the poppy fields of greece and when she got older her tongue started yearning to speak italian and russian so that she could travel to other far off places.
she was born on a friday between two ice storms, and the first word she ever heard was  b e a u t y. her mama told her that when she first opened her dark blue eyes, her pupil was surrounded by a ring of pure white. the blue stayed but the white turned to green [and from then on her eyes were always her favorite feature].
she always had nightmares, never good dreams, but maybe that's because she could never stop  d r e a m i n g  with her eyes open.  all she ever wanted was dirt roads and stars and mud under her fingernails.
[maybe one day, when she's older, she'll take a crinkly old map and a bloodstained sort of lovehis tears dripped into jasmine tea, while
the stench of hopelessness permeated
his mind
and the rainy breeze blew gently through the window
and the voices in his head whispered that
real men never cry
but he couldn't stop
because everything he'd ever wanted was bleeding to death
under the table
and he could hear the sirens coming for him. morningssunday.
the croissant crumbles in my fingers
buttery flakes drift towards mismatched
china
and your lips are stained with
strawberry jam.
monday.
sleep clings to your eyes
like a shadow
and i watch you breathe, while
i trace your collarbone with
tired fingers.
tuesday.
we wake before the alarm
and count how many times the
neighbor's dog barks
before she finally lets him in.
your soft laugh blends perfectly into
the early morning sun.
wednesday.
your fingers trace the curve
of my spine
the old window rattles
in the wind
and i press my cold toes against your leg.
thursday.
half asleep
i mumble how the faded, flowery wallpaper
looks pretty in the sun.
you tell me i look prettier.
friday.
i tickle your cheek with my eyelashes
and make my fingers do
ski jumps
off your nose
and wonder out loud why
the room smells like oranges
[you tell me you ate some
         for a midnight snack.]
saturday.
linen

_{Suggested by: SilverInkblot

“aprilwednesday has a fantastic style, lending heaps of magic to everyday moments.”}

KtheCard
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_{Suggested by: LiliWrites

“KtheCard writes breath-taking prose and poetry that covers a wide range of subjects. She's only 15, so this is a writer to watch. Who knows where her talent will take her?”}

:thumb193115843: Into SmokeLight brings the darkness, a flash so bright
the whole house sears in white-purple motion:
the cat streaking for cover, the clock notioning out of time,
an earthquake worth of thunder rumbling through the ground.
Front to fronts, the cold sinks in through the North windows
pulling the last candle flames into taut slivers that shiver a story:
When the age of fire sputters,
when bulbs are shuttered and wires fray, we will lay
in silence, wrapped in the cold of ice-aged dreams. From a tomb reborn.Silence. I never liked it. Never liked it at all. The snow was rising, enveloping my home with its icy cold tendrils, climbing slowly up my outer walls, bringing its acoustic death. I longed to hear the howling wind. I longed to hear anything, but all the sounds had waned and been muted by these relentless stacks of flakes…that rose higher…and higher.
Tacking another blanket across the double paned glass window, I kept praying for it to stop, but my prayers were in vain, and I knew it. This was no ordinary blizzard. For six days now it had raged, unstopping. Before I lost my cable, the news channels had called it a freak occurrence, an anomaly of epic proportions. Before I lost my cable, there was The Grinch and commercials and voices. Now there was only silence.
Soon, perhaps tomorrow, my roof would give out, under its excessive weight, and I would be pinned as it crushed me, preventing my lungs from exhaling. Freezing had to be the better option. I'd read somewh Mother Nature's WrathThe supposed deity, Mother Nature, was always present on the backwater planet. The bitter cold wind, stinging Bosch's face and ruffling his fur, was a constant reminder of her wrath. At least the sun was shining as he trudged through the deep snow.
"Machu's hungry." Shelly, his small human mate, lagged behind him. The snow was knee deep for her, but she struggled through without complaint.
He did not speak her language, but the translator implanted in his ear understood most human words.
"Soon." In the distance, he still saw the human structure they had escaped. He had killed the humans, but now they were in a race against time. Rescue was waiting for him two days away, weather permitting. He would be assumed dead if he did not appear in that time.
The pup in question, Machu, huffed and circled his bearer on all fours, impatient for his meal. Still light enough to remain on top the snow, the pup kept up better than Shelly.
Machu took after him in appearance, as was natural when his rac LW 00: Shadow Heart“Only the dead have seen the end of war.” –George Santayanna
No one knows why the wars started. Or when. Or why. Just that they are.
I have been to every part of this universe. My feet have made the ice fields of Ilazki sing. I have felt the burn of the sun on Chromandae. I have spilled blood in the arena of Gegenes and washed my hands in the seas of Icaunus. I have haggled with traders in the bazaar on Adur and felt the thrum of the steam engine trains on Atarrabi. I have even stood on the steps of the Academy of Lugos and heard the hum of the electrified defenses mingle with the quiet chorus of night city sounds.
But, before this, all I remember is waking—
The last remnants of something beautiful had faded away, and then I was abandoned. I was betrayed.
My knees against icy ground, I tried to rub away the red stains on my hands but they were too thick; they

_{Featuring the collective works of the previous spotlight deviants: Shards-of-Shame, bowie-loon123, Halatia, safia3, davidanaandrake, thorns, angelStained and linaket.}

My Spotlight Deviant:

Magic-fan

Tales of the ForbiddenPrologue
Bitter winds ripped sands across the gritty desert plain, covering the fallen warriors and plaguing the living. It bit into bleeding flesh, stinging the injuries of people conscious enough to care. A wounded man clad in tattered white robes stood in the center, amongst those not yet fallen.
The stench of rotten flesh infested his nostrils; fighters who fell early enough for the scorching sun to hasten their decay. Others fought well into the night. They battled for survival and revenge for their fallen comrades. The sand beneath his bare feet caressed his skin, coloring crimson as blood trailed from many wounds and soaked into it. The upper part of his robes had been shredded and hung past his waist – a large gash tore across his chest and bled profusely.
The lacking garments on his upper body freed his wings. Two wings larger than himself, once a stunning white were now tainted by dirt and blood, the remnants of his battle. His left-wing twitched and hung limp. He stretc -Poem- Life's LessonA young girl lived so long ago,
In a land so faraway
A fragile heart within her chest,
Much to her dismay
Blessed by faith she may have been,
All that mattered not
Never could she hide her love,
For she was never taught
Emotions clear to other souls,
Ready to be torn
Tricked and trapped in childish games,
Expressions showed her scorn
Though her life was hard and cruel,
Onward she always went
A husband she soon did find,
Leaving her content
Eventually when her children grew,
A lesson she did teach
Be yourself no matter what,
Despite what others preach Werewolf's Lair -0-Prologue
Pale light reflected off the surface of the water. A half-eaten orb shone in the sky and its light returned to it upon making contact with the liquid. The water lay calm and the night was silent. A young woman sat on the lakebed and stared up at the sky; peace washed over her, a sensation she felt only in short bursts.
She hadn’t properly felt it in years.
Twirling a pebble between her index finger and thumb, pale green eyes scanned the surroundings. A clearing with a lake; trees stood tall and proud around the water’s edge and formed a protective wall. A barrier. It gave her a sense of security. So long as Paige remained inside the natural barrier, nothing would harm her.
She long learned never to trust the idea of safety.
“Foolish.”
A frown twisted distaste to her expression and she redirected her gaze to the mirrored moon on the water. The reflection shifted and rippled as something moved close to the surface – a movement quick and strong

_{Natasha has an amazing talent for keeping us on the edge of our seats with her compelling stories. Whether she is dwelling in the fantasy realm or looming within the darkness, exciting characters await you.}

She has also taken a few moments to share some of her own insights as a writer. I asked her a few questions:

Why do you write?

I write, because it's my passion and because I love it. There is nothing I enjoy more than writing stories, portraying my views on things, and bringing characters and their tales to life with words. I couldn't even think about not writing anymore; it's become so much of a part of me that living without writing just wouldn't be living. Writing is my dream and my passion. That's where my quote comes in.

Never stop dreaming, 'cause the day you stop dreaming, is the day you stop living.

You recently published an exciting novel. Can you tell us a little about this project, and offer a few tips to those also looking to self-publish?

A Glimpse of The Dark is a collection of seven short stories. Each of them have philosophical tones to them and portray different aspects of life that most of us don't get to endure. What happens when we die? What do we see in death, that we remember if we are brought back? These stories serve the purpose of answering questions, yet creating more.

My basic advice is this: If you want to do it, do it.

There is a lot of debate going on about traditional publishing and self-publishing. In my opinion, there are pros and cons to either options as I wrote in this blog post. Take a look at the options and really think about which would be best for you. I say that your chances are equal in both options, but no matter which you go for, it will take hard work. If you want help editing and getting your cover designed, I would recommend traditional publishing because that includes those things. If you have the money to pay for an editor and a cover artist, at the risk of not earning it back, then go for it! Publishing is always a challenge and, particularly in self-publishing, marketing cleverly and well is the key to success.

What things in your life aside from DeviantART keep you connected to your writing?

I have a lot of support from friends and family. Particularly my friends are always willing to read anything I write and to give their opinions. I've met a lot of wonderful people, both on deviantArt, as well as other websites like Goodreads and WordPress - even Twitter. With so many people who support me, it's hard to not stay connected to my writing. Family and friends are the greatest help I have. Whenever I feel down or not up to writing, I can always count on my dear friend NaKaya to kick me into gear.

What motivates you to share your writing on DeviantART?

The community. I've been actively sharing my writing here for over three years now and am continually surprised by how helpful the community is. Whether general opinions or constructive criticism, a lot of people are willing to help fellow artists along and that's something I haven't seen in this magnitude elsewhere. I've met great friends here and that goes beyond just helping other artists to improve. There are so many wonderful people on deviantArt. That makes it hard not to share.

Which piece featured is your favorite and why?

While it's hard to pick a favorite, as all three pieces have significant meaning to me, I'll have to choose Tales of the Forbidden, it is the prologue which is the first in a series of four books, and the first book I ever completed in its entirety. I started planning the series in September of 2008, but didn't properly get to work on the first novel until December 2010. Tales of The Forbidden took up a year of my time, and I finally finished it on December 31st, 2011. This project means the most to me because I have poured so much time and effort into it. While I love my current side-project Werewolf's Lair due to the differences between the two series, as well as the poem Life's Lesson for its meaning, they can't compare to The Forbidden Series as a whole.

Magic-fan will also be joining us in the our TheLadiesofLit chatroom for a special critiquing session for her wonderful literary work. If there are any critiquing tips you would like to offer her toward any deviations that you have seen featured here today or others that interest you – this is the place to be on April 15th at 7:00 pm EST! (What time is this for me?) And as an extra incentive: for those of who offer Magic-fan the best critiques, there will be a few extra goodies in store for you, so don’t miss out!

Pick Your Poison: A Mini-Contest

Your mission, should you choose to accept it: write a humorous limerick or clerihew, in a female’s point of view. There are no line limits for your limericks, but remember: Clerihews are four lines only! The more original and creative these are, the better! Be sure to note all of your entries to LadyLincoln.

Your mini-contest deadline: April 20th, 2012

Your prizes:

1st place winner will receive a DeviantART T-shirt of their choosing and 1-year subscription.

2nd place winner will receive a 1-year subscription and 800 points.

3rd place winner will receive a 3-month subscription and 500 points.

Honorable mentions get a 1-month subscription and a journal feature from LadyLincoln

Meet Our Contributors:

I want to express my gratitude toward everyone for all of the ongoing support of this project. I duly hope to see even more suggestions in the future. Also – those of you who did not see your deviations selected and posted in this article, they may be featured on the next one. We will have plenty of upcoming deviants to spotlight in the future. If you would like to be one of those, or to suggest others, feel free to note me and be sure to tell me what you love most about them and why these writers appeals to you. Do not be shy – get involved! The more suggestions I receive, the more writers that get featured. For now, check out our volunteers who sent in their features and offered assistance, and don’t forget to thank them!

Our Wonderful Suggesters and Volunteers from Past and Present

SadisticIceCream
dreamsinstatic
LadyofGaerdon
anapests-and-ink
Magic-fan
wyldhoney
ATrue
angelStained
safia3
xlntwtch
Tobaeus
Vigilo
SilverInkblot
LiliWrites
ikazon
WorldWar-Tori

If this article interests you, be sure to check these out!