The Ladies of Lit: Volume IX

Apr 7, 201128 min read

Deviation Actions

Published: Apr 7, 2011

2.5K Views

Welcome to volume nine of my ongoing Literature news 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:

This article’s deviant spotlight: featuring the awesome LunaticStar. 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.

Now – On With the Features!

MoreaGaara
Earthaven PrologueAn Age of Heaven (10,000 Years) After Lucifer’s Rebellion
The seven of us are all very much alone.
We were once one.  But now we are nine, and we are two:  nine minds, two bodies.
Of these, one mind was sealed within one body and banished to Earth.  But not before he was made to forever feel all the pain he had caused.  Or helped to cause.
Seven minds were banished to Hell, each to endure a different torture.
The second body helps to torture us, forced by angel magic.
Of the last mind, we know nothing, save that it is tortured.  It must be, for we are.
How long have we been down here?  An Age of Heaven?  More?  Less?  Surely God’s Messenger will come for us soon.
We seven minds were given bodies, to house us, to better feel our tortures.  We are only barely connected to them, and we are loose enough that we have found each other, scattered about our own private Slave MineThere were a few whimpers and a lot of flinches from the others when One struck them.  Our wake-up call.  He cursed at us, at me more gently than the others, and not just because I was moving well before he got to my Place.  A knife landed point-down in the dirt before me; I grabbed it and used it to cut off the trailing strands of hair that would have blocked my sight, then I put it back for anyone else to use.  The younger ones scrabbled for it, not knowing that they would be checked before they left the Sleeproom for it…or knowing and not caring that they would be punished for it.  If I didn't look, I wouldn't have to rat them out.
One shoved everyone back until I was able to come to the front of the line out; he barely even looked at me before grunting and pointing over his shoulder towards the Eatroom.  I moved quickly towards it, but not so quickly as to appear eager.  By the time I got there, the food was Long Live the King"The King is dead," the messenger gasped, kneeling on the ground and panting for breath.  "But the battle is won," he finished, his palms before him, arms trembling as he panted.
The general signaled for water to be brought, and the messenger drank gratefully.  "Thank the Fae…" he whispered, his head tilted backwards in reverence.  The chandelier above him trembled a little, refracted rainbows splintering themselves on the walls.  "We need not bow to Rome, nor to her strange religion."
"The King said…ere he fell…" the messenger broke in, more composed now.  "That we needed to consult the Fae ere anyone looked on the Prince.  He didn't say why…he was a man possessed then.  War consumed his mind.  He cut down a full cohort alone, but then he was surrounded…and we could not come to his aid."
"Then that is what we must do," the Scribe stated quietly, but with his accustomed firmness. To Dream of FallingI dream of falling.
It's not a dream common to angels.  After all, we have a pair of wings--or two or three--and we can use them.  We float upon the air, dance among the stars, shape the clouds with our breath, and so on.  All that lovely wordplay to describe an indescribable.  A joy, a graceless power.  Flight.
Humans dream of it often, I am told.  It makes sense.  They have no wings save for what they create with their hands.  Airplanes, hang gliders, helicopters.  Kites.  They are obsessed with the sky, more so than the angels themselves, many of whom will fly three thousand miles rather than walk across the street.
And yet I dream of falling.
And in my dreams, I always start out as what I am--a bookish secretary pushed into a role never intended for him--and I always end as a human.
And the first thing I feel is falling.
Sometimes I jump off the edge of one of the Heavens.

_{Suggested by: Magic-fan

“MoreaGaara is a writer who dwells within fantasy realms and always manages to keep her stories unique. From vampires, to incubi, angels, and even fae; her stories cover a broad realm and are always an interesting read.”}

QuillArtist
CoaTH: Chapter OneChapter One
Four Nations High School Chatroom
waterbabe6 has signed on
.water.earth.fire.AIR. has signed on
boomeranghotty has signed on
earth_chick_no1 has signed on
waterbabe6 Everyone on?
.water.earth.fire.AIR Yeah. can you believe this?
boomeranghotty i no. its so stupid
earth_chick_no1 i wonder if tehy thought abut poor BLIND people wehn they thuoght of this.
boomeranghotty how r u readin this
earth_chick_no1 teh computer is reading it 2 me and im typin it in braille
boomeranghotty ur computer can do that?
earth_chick_no1 yah nice u.n., btw
waterbabe6 Anyway…is everyone excited for today? First day of school after the holidays, after all.
.water.earth.fire.AIR. not rly. kinda lame, going back after vacation.
_banished_fire_prince_ has signed on
_banished_fire_prince_ hey guys. wat up?
earth_chick_no1 hey sparky
boomeranghotty sup
waterbabe6 Dragon of Heaven: A XS TaleChapter One: Birth of the Dragon
Omi stumbled as the woman’s screams grew louder. He stemmed his irritation. She had every right to scream in childbirth. From what he knew, it was a painful process.
“Again,” he muttered to himself, flowing back into the beginning of the old familiar Monkey Strike. Another blood-curdling scream ripped through Omi’s nerves, and he gave up.
“Perhaps later.” He folded his hands into his wide blue sleeves and left his quarters to find Master Fung. The old man soon came into view, standing in the doorway of the main temple forum and watching the downpour outside.
“A miracle takes place today, young monk.” Master Fung’s hunched shoulders hid the strength that still resided in the gnarled limbs, though he walked on a cane now. “Have you sensed it?”
“I have heard it,” Omi said darkly. “It gives me great pleasure in my manhood.”
“The carrying of life is a precious duty,” Fanfiction Essayfan• fic• tion (n): a fan-made work of literature in the style of another book, television show, movie, or other entertainment piece created to entertain other fans, express the author's views on the work, and/or to challenge the canon of the copied work.
Fanfiction has a huge base. Websites such as fanfiction.net and deviantart.com nurture such works and produce communities where writers and readers alike can interact and discuss their fandom. However, since the dawn of the fanfiction, its members have been criticized as losers and nerds, and their works dismissed as rubbish. While much of the criticism is true, the institution of fanfiction is not useless.
In such large groups, fanfiction writers have come together to pool ideas and share plotlines. It also is a breeding ground for aspiring writers to hone their skills. Skeptics brand fanfiction as the easy route to writing. This is not so; it is more difficult to write someone else's characters than it is to write i

_{Suggested by: Sepulchral-Roses

“She writes some awe inspiring fan fiction. It's hardly fan fiction, it's so original.”}

are-bee-s
Nano 08, the summer effectHe sees her through the window. It is an accident. He has learned in five summers of painting houses not to look through the windows even when his face is inches from them. He has learned that there are often scenes on their other sides that can never be unseen. And there is the moral question of it, too, though he sometimes catches himself thinking it should occur to people to monitor their own privacy by drawing their curtains; closing their shutters.
She is in front of a mirror. She is clothed; that is not the issue. Like girls all over town she wears the summer uniform: denim shorts, thong sandals, a white tank top. She sees him, too: their eyes meet in the mirror, and he can't help it - it is the natural reaction to flinch physically, to rear back on the ladder having forgotten he was on it in the first place. There is a long piece of time, the interval between surprise and calamity, during which the ladder parts from the wall and he and the ladder fall backward, their destination the summer effect nov 5Abby's grandmother is sleeping or dead. Which it is she can't be sure. Abby lays on the carpet on her stomach, staring with guilty fascination into the great ruin of her grandmother's face. There are wrinkles like rivers, her grandmother's face one system of tributaries, all leading to the pit of her parted lips. As Abby inches closer, she can hear the slow space of each breath, soft and nearly inaudible, like tiny dreams. When the door slams, Abby leaps to her feet and bolts up the stairs as her grandmother jerks awake. She is not caught; it was the bac screen door. Her breathing is heavy as she flings herself against the wall at the top of the stairs, her heart all she can hear or feel, its pulse a living noise in her veins, her skin hot with the flush of blood into capillaries.
Downstairs she hears her grandmother's voice and her brother's voice, laid over one another as they talk at the same time. Abby knows it is wrong to eavesdrop, but she doesn't think they will notice her if sh Little sisterThis morning the sunrise is muted by rain clouds. In the extended night, I walk through the wet grass that needs to be mowed, through the gate soft with rot that swings silently on its hinges. The dog pads behind me, panting despite the still-cool, the flavor of night in the temperature, in the balance between humidity and darkness that keeps mosquitoes where they sleep.
The horses' clocks, buried in the vicinity of a hungry stomach, overwhelm the illusion of the sky. They are silhouettes, black bodies shouldering one another aside to be first at the gate. I take their leather halters from the post. I shoo them backward as I unlatch the gate. They move off, but their impatience makes me cautious. It has never happened, but I imagine them knocking me to the ground, churning me earthward with their heavy hooves.
This time they don't. They press one another backward, firing hind legs at one another, baring teeth that gleam pale yellow in the incomplete light. I buckle the halter over the EjectWe all sit around a black table, its wooden surface scarred by time, stained by oily smoke and sweaty palms. The table is in the middle of the street and it’s begun to rain, but we have sat there through worse. Miles sits on my right as always, staring at his cards as though with concentration enough he could change them. Maybe he can, we’re not sure, we’ve taken bets on this. Miles is familiar. I think he might be an actor or a politician: he has that sharpness down the bridge of his nose, as though he’s held his breath too long, leaking lies.
The rain is blue, but it doesn’t stain my cards, just rolls down them in long drops. My cards are blank; I push the chips in front of me forward. All in. The others look up at me in surprise. I’m never brave about things like this. I’m not a gambler, not even here.
Only Jaunt is unperturbed by my uncharacteristic behavior. She sits directly across from me, slouched down in the big red rocking chair, a football

_{Suggested by: dimerization

“Her writing is beautiful. The prose is simple and easy to read, but has these flashes of exquisite description that take my breath away -- in a few simple sentences, creating whole people quickly and skillfully. The descriptions are powerful, but not excessive, and the voices of the narrator are subtle but distinct.”}

pretty-yin
SafetyI. (Abhorrence)
An ex parte
set up fortified legal and feeble
physical restraints;
re-enforced by two states,
two hundred miles, and
a suspended license.
There was so much air between
here and there- I failed
to fill it
with smoke and pillows.
We abhorred and later adored
this space between us.
We embraced it until its collapse.
We frantically tried to
rebuild it, but it was nothing but air
and empty bedsheets.
(It is an odd shape. Nothing
ever seems to fit.)
II. (Graft versus Donor)
The restraining order sat,
expired, for several reasons:
release, acceptance, faith,
and fear of disclosure.
I was greedy and guarded my
newest address from your shade.
I salted the threshold, burnt sage,
and sat, silent and pensive.
I was alone and hidden
somewhere in the city that rejected
you and half of me, the wrong marrow.
(That half of me houses
all of my memories of you.)
III. (Security)
My social security sat divorced
from my birth certificate.
Alone and largely useless, its contents
memorized, it SaharaI.
It rains red Saharan sand from across the sea,
and it sings like a mother calling to me
for dinner from across the way. I say,
"I will return, again, to you some day."
II.
I can feel your smile curve, making
imperfect corners with the line of
my spine. I hide from you, mine.
III.
Note by note, I
Rebuild my career
As a cellist.
Octave by octave,
I fill the stillness.
IV.
I use the wavelengths of a double-stop hum to build a ladder
And I climb it past the dissonant memories of all the Jacobs and
All the Davids and all the Deborahs and all the pianos that
I never learned how to play. And somehow, I get away.
V.
Sun-breaking toil gives me peaceful,
sleeping night-times and dreams of
breathing in water and
breathing out song.
VI.
I bought myself a ticket and flew away.
I stood on a Western Saharan cliff and wept.
I watched the sun sink into the sea and
I heard them singing as I leapt. This, Too, Shall PassYou are East of Autumn;
you are empty air.
You are barely brittle,
a question whose answer
will seize up months
you have no will
or power to arrest.
You are not the stiffening,
stubborn tundra;
you are a promise
and not a covenant.
You are not fixed, forbidden
from the West.
You, too, must know a day to set. LunarI.
The curve and list of my lips
Is like a tide, here high and there low,
With ebb, flow, and pulled by something
I can't reach and will never know.
II.
The line that divides the mind
From left to right has twisted,
Contorted. It was once fine.
It is now indistinct and distorted.
III.
Shape-shifting forms in the night and the dark
Rise from the river, take me, and walk.
IV.
Raking my nails through cloth and skin,
I beg myself to let me back in.

_{Suggested by: SadisticIceCream

“pretty-yin fills her poetry with arresting images, and a startling play of concepts and words. Whether she is writing in free verse or fixed form, she takes the poetic form to a new, different level.”}

My Spotlight Deviant:

LunaticStar

My MoonWhere does memory begin? Not at one point, not a click of the light switch, or a press of a trigger. Memory is an incoming tide, a mass of reverent salt water being pushed into view by the moon's cryptic, yet ever present, lunar power.
My moon was my beloved familiar, my Brittany spaniel, Hopi.
From the earliest swells of my oceanic memory, I have always been able to look over and see my dog. His furry white and brown face peering over my crib, his inquisitive brown eyes locking with mine. His black lips would draw to the corners, his furry eyebrows would lift. He would smile for me, and I would smile back, my coffee eyes matching his. Even when I pulled his soft floppy ear, or dressed him up like my favorite TV dog, Mutley, he would sigh and moan, but hold his place diligently, sacrificing his personal comfort for my childish happiness. He never barked, bit, or growled. He was never violent, cruel,

_{Heather’s writing continues to be absolutely phenomenal in the sense that you can enjoy all of her crisp details without missing out on all of the action, fun and suspense that is included within.}

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?

Maybe there’s something wrong with my brain. Maybe some sparks are flying when there should be just nothingness. I don’t know. I’ve always had a hard time falling asleep because me telling my brain to shut down is a command it can’t seem to compute.

It was at a very young age that I learned a valuable fact. To sleep (and thus preserve precarious sanity), I needed to trick my brain into shutting off. It was like a riddle-telling frog was guarding the door. Or something. I was maybe four when I realized I was at war with my brain. Gloves off. It’s go-time. Conscious mind, you’re going down!

My weapon: daydreaming. A fanciful word, used for when people lean back in chairs on porches and internally budget or collate their taxes or imagine hot rods or whatever trite thoughts flutter through the sedentary brains of the simple-minded. For me, daydreaming is done at night. Right before I fall asleep. It’s a battle, me and my brain, a bridge between my flippant and namby-pambying consciousness and the giant, festering maw of my volcanic subconscious.

I remember the first daydream I used to usher myself into the dream world. A giant anthropomorphic chicken was destroying a town. Fifty foot tall, wearing a red t-shirt, this chicken lived to destroy. Buildings crushed under foot, people scurrying away in terror. I was elated. Jubilant. Not only did it work, but my dreams reciprocated the daydreaming! Holy crap. I was a god. I’d never think about it during the day, no. But at night, when I crossed The Battlefield to wage war with Myself, I’d remember what I dreamed of, and it would add to the story.

Giant chickens, over years, gave way to things like werewolves. Lizard people. Heroes chased by the government, aliens in space, fighters, Jedi, star-crossed lovers, even demonic gunmen from the depths of the oceans of unreality.

So why do I write? This terrifying game of galactic-scale ping-pong I play with my subconscious gives me these ideas. Raw emotions and concepts from those dreams where I’m running, being shot at, blown up or embraced. Not by strangers, but by the base concepts of what would grow into literary characters. Their souls, so to speak, are born when my idle daydreams mutate into dreams of epic proportions.

Some people think sleeping eight hours a night is wasting a third of their lives.

I really beg to differ.

You have some beautiful illustrations to go along with your stories. What sorts of things help to inspire these visuals and what do they inspire for you, personally?

Illustrations that are specifically related to written works are usually just visual proof-of-concept sort of things.  I do a lot of character portraits for writing, just testing to see if I can capture the personalities in my mind with visual physiognomy.  Whilst writing, I don’t think of my characters in a highly visual way.

If you’ve read Drowned, for instance, you’ll notice there is no description (and I mean none) of the villain, Eduardo Capriccio.  He’s a fill-in-the-blanks character, and I’m not trying to say I’m too lazy to think of what he looks like, or anything like that.  If made to draw him, I’d come up with something.  And by ‘made to draw something,’ I mean that the vomitious beast that is my Subconscious would pester me to get artistic in my free time.  (My Subconscious at this point reminds me to point at that it’s actually a kind, loving kind of vomitious beast, and to be kinder in further reference).

Anywho, in conclusion, my illustrations of lit are Schrödinger’s cat.  Or Cats.  Their faces don’t exist until I draw them.  And I don’t see them until I do.  Make of that what you will.  My inspiration is my inspiration.  My art is paradoxical.

You recently published a book. What sorts of resources were of assistance to you as you went about the task of finishing your novel? And what advice would you give to those hoping to publish their own novels?

Oh jesus.  Navigating Lulu.com was akin to Dante Alighieri’s journey to the 9th level of hell.  My Virgil was denlm, the esteemed and brilliant evil writer lady, Denise Meyer.  Basically I had so many questions, and she answered them with clarity and pluck.

There was also a chat on how to self publish way back when on like, the cr-lit channel I think.  Both denlm and WriterOfStuff were my push to finish up the book, self-publish it, and get it out there!  The ins and outs of lulu.com were just like, the hurdles to jump over on the journey.  There are plenty of resources out there and I’d be happy to answer any questions (with gratuitous swearing and excessive frustrated punctuation) via note or whatever.  So ask away!

As far as cover stuff goes, I did two covers for denlm before I did my own.  She really sorta gave me my first job as a graphics designer and I’m so prouuuuud of the Jon.com cover still!  We make a good superteam, Denise and I.  Ha ha ha!

And here’s my advice for the wandering masses.  Follow these simple tips!

1. Find readers.  Make them typo hunt with you. It can be a Fun Adventure.
2. Make sure your readers are your friends. Then make them hate you with fun plot twists and things!  If they’re still your friends afterwards, you succeeded.
3. Look at real books for formatting.  Hire a gfx artist for the cover if you’re inept. Then tally ho to the world of self published GLORY!  (Honestly it’s most self-satisfaction, but that’s important. If you feel satisfied after doing it the self-pub way, you will have plenty of guts for the…gasp…traditional way!)

What motivates you to share your writing on DeviantART?

Really awesome people who actually are my fans and that is fuckin’ incredible.

I don’t write for people. Not totally. I write for you. I write for me! I write to satisfy the Lovely Charming Vomitious Beast of my Festering Subconscious. I see no reason to heavily discern between those reasons. The sum of the parts is greater than the whole, et cetera.

But sharing? Yes. It’s you people. I know I sound conceited, but seriously, I love that people love what I do. It’s mind-boggling. Often exposing. Is this what a career flasher feels like? (…if less cold…)

Which piece featured is your favorite and why?

"My Moon."

I’d like to bring to light sort of an unsung piece in my gallery. It’s the single autobiographical piece I’ve ever written, and it means the world to me. If you’ve ever been an only child, and grown up with a dog, you might understand when I say Hopi was my soul. As a child, there was no me. There were only us. And when he died, well, I suppose you can picture the rest. I miss him with every burning, aching fiber of my being, and part my soul will always be a ghost-limb, a dog-shaped hole.

LunaticStar 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 17th at 7pm EST! (What time is this for me?) And as an extra incentive: for those of who offer LunaticStar the best critiques, there will be a few extra goodies in store for you, so don’t miss out!

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!