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Welcome to volume five 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 wonderful rushingtide. 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!
CrimzonRose
The Temptress of Hallows EveCome scatter upon this goblin's lair
to taste the witch that does not cry
For you will know seductive venom
by way of sweetened thigh
Come to me within false sleep
with pestilence woven hair
For I am the devil's weed
a siren of pleasure...yet of innocence unpaired
Come to me o wicked dead
to sample embers bright
Come, come my fellow spirit
to sing temptations of the night
For I am light and dark
of thicket and brier rose
Mixed within tainted pools
of this no one shall know
And in this bed of wailing winds
where astride you...I then shall be
For when the midnight hour comes
we will create the torrid seas
Come to me my sullen dear
within the moons full light
To burn with carnal embers pure
in this garden of tantalizing delight
stars of the sea.. .we bleed color like sidewalk chalk
giving life to shadows of blue and gray
and inside our iridescent minds
life is beautiful
we strive
to convince...to believe
that a heart can drip teardrops
of liquid sunshine and not break away
but come back with each heartbeat
as waves upon a sandy shore
then as the rain falls
washing away questions of uncertainty
hold fast
and envision the bloom of our tomorrows
for together we can make the scars into heaven
i alone.. .descendi dreamt
lonely as a tree
never wanting to dance again
surviving on faded ink sparks
that grew crucifix bound
in pallid rainbows of grey
tainted in blood
forgotten in the empty melodies of living
i hardened
becoming sea glass...beautiful
but silent...and lost
yearning for wind
or the desire of fullness within the moon
wishing.. .for a smile
to be quietly upon me
i broke
trembling the shadows into mist
silvering the darkness
with filigree and tears
fearing there would be nothing to see
no rhymes to frolic in
no soul without a sigh to be sung
i died
a remnant of sin
the repetitive slashing
the guillotine of sto
slipping into ashes...Congregating under my skin are the transparent appendages that twist
and gnaw at my convulsions of life. They become the silhouettes of my
suffocation, the rotting demons that can only be cleansed by the maggots
that sit and wait for murmured speeches of my despair.
I can scream without sound, but it will not quiet them. I can stroke
the violation that throbs within my walls, that hammers at the storm
that threatens the sanctuary that I have just found, but still i will slip
slowly into nothing.
I cannot allow these viscid layers of my insanity to be enticed into
the beckoning cracks of ghost light, yet there will be no satisfaction in feeding
for tenaciousness. I have become chafed and bruised, naked to the rapist
that has been denied release. That has been imprisoned within the
chastised convent of sweets.
The eidolon is here. Arms open…waiting…and the sanity that was once a comfort
of loneliness for this dying moon is but now…the ashen chips of bones that
will relish
Suggested by: Jade-Pandora
“I was unfamiliar with Lavenia's writing until I read her poem, “The Temptress of Hallows Eve.” After which I looked through her gallery and discovered her poetic style for the dark side of the romantic, and the subsequent passions that fall at the base of her sturdy tree that eternally turns over its leaves of autumn - her favorite season (and mine).”
Spirit-Princess
The Art of FishI. To not know
It was light when she returned, body aching and soul wet with the bloodiness of man, and Adrianna was already gone (probably already working, dedicated girl that she was.)
Breakfast was a paltry affair, but she was starving after an early dinner the night before, and so she almost devoured the stale bread and the almost-mouldy fromage that was left from yesterday morning. The flow of customers was unusually diminué, and so she was left free to exit the building, to leave and wander the streets as she pleased (with a stern warning to return by noon, or not at all.)
Most times, propelled along by Adrianna's buoyant enthusiasm, she would have reluctantly walked into the cheap clothing stores, idly contemplated purchasing one of the better-made fake diamond necklaces, stared in envy at the wonders interdit (to people with her same dirty savage's skin, in any case) of the upper-class atzerriko s
Love Letters Love Letters
To the girl too excited to sit on the train, instead standing till her legs are tired and the straps of her bag cut into her shoulders –
Things won't be different. Change isn't a click-finger-and-it's-done affair – change is years and years of pain and joy that'll burn and sear you. Dreams don't float around in the air for you to catch in your tiny fingers and press to your quick-beating heart.
But keep thinking they do, and that change is as easy as that! – and the hope will keep glowing, and – who knows?
Maybe someday, dreams will drift like little bubbles in a swirling kaleidoscope of colour.
Don't wait for change to happen –
Make it happen.
(And don't forget I love you, darling)
To the girl who scored the second-highest mark in the grade for her yearly Maths test (and will cherish the victory) –
Victories don't come just because you've got the first one. &
Words and InsanityArdeur. Espoir.
Words.
They echo in the silence left after a massacre of the innocents, the helpless, the pure; after souls have been taken and counted and catalogued to safeguard in the event of a future need for referencing.
Words of nothingness, that say nothing, that mean nulle.
These are words – chemin, guerre, demain, garder – and separately they tell stories – autonomously dazzling stories blended into conformed uniformity when they're conjugated and ordered into grammatically perfect phrases and sentences as approved by the latest word processor, 't's crossed and 'i's dotted.
These words mean nothing now but you can't stop writing them; to the sound of drums and crashing chords – and are you simply hiding from the word which tells your story?
Frenzied…
Mad…
Crazy…
Lost…
Terrified…
Alone…?
…and the words continue to weave through and around each other, a masquerading dance
DanceThey first meet on a bridge.
The gate-way…from life to death, dark to light – the bridge that's always there but never was; that no one sees but all have seen.
Not much happens. Not really.
Wind gushes, tossing sleek dark locks and dancing leaves into the air. Unnoticed by the woman, disregarded by the man.
Man…woman?
Hardly.
Long ago – centuries before, actually – she bore wings; her acceptance of humanity, its wants and needs, and all that it was.
As they kiss, centuries later (in the human realms, under shady trees in the warmth of spring), his hand running down the smooth, soft skin of her bare back, their absence is missed less than ever.
The first few months, they escape notice; reluctantly, they submit to the demands of their separate worlds.
Each time they part, she resolves to forget. Each time they part, he resolves that the next time he will not let go.
Yet one week later, they always meet.
Suggested by: SadisticIceCream
“Spirit-Princess is fascinated by words and their meaning. Her works contain startling turns of phrase no one else would probably dream of.”
PaperDart
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Numbers"You try, Byron. What's five plus seven?"
Byron considered. Five and seven probably got along okay. Seven was a jerk, but five was a gutsy little fellow. He smiled. Five could handle seven just fine. Byron liked five. So together—
"Concentrate, Byron."
"I am, Miss. It's . . ." Something pretty, but also quite complicated. ". . . twelve!"
MonstersI once sat in an orphanage, pouring make-believe tea. The little girl I was playing with told me to add milk and sugela. I suppose I should have corrected her; should have told her that I would stir in the sugar and ignored the isiZulu word. The orphanage teaches the children to speak English, because English speaking children have a much better chance of finding new parents. I suppose I should have done that, but I couldn't bring myself to take away one of the last few words of her mother tongue. I put usugela into the tea.
I've visited homes that I wouldn't call houses. I stood outside an abandoned garage with a broken door. A young man – only a teenager, really – bent double to walk inside. Sewage-ridden water from the street seeped into the dank, dirty room. It was shelter of a kind; a place to keep things and a place to sleep. The boy cheerfully told us that the owner of the garage up the road allowed him to use the customers' bathroom. He explained how he
Gwyar's Telling of MyrddinI've seen you sitting as men sing
The lays of Caerllion's great lord,
Yet knights of noble name and deed
Are naught but fantasies for fools.
I tell now many times more truth.
Of simple Arthur I shan't speak;
Instead, of Myrddin's mighty mind.
Attend to my untwisting of
The tales Taliessen told.
Bah! Bumbling, beer-drunk bard.
Of beggar-girl was Myrddin born,
His father rumoured to be fey.
The child was lissom, lithe of limb
And wondrous in his youthful wit.
Yet with his wild and willful ways,
He could not keep the court's goodwill.
Thus banished to Brocéliande,
He made a home of hole and hedge.
That forest's folk are known to few;
I learned their ways and worked with them,
But Myrddin dwelt within their doors,
Becoming magelord more than man.
My childish self thought him a churl,
But wished that she might be as wise.
When Orkney sought me out to wed,
My heart grew strangely heavy.
In losing love I wrought a laugh
Whose echoes haunt me evermore.
My broodlings were to Arthur bound
W
Suggested by: wyldhoney
“PaperDart is as diverse, eloquent and as inspired as she is inspiring.”
Suggested by: KneelingGlory
“TheBrassGlass is not only a helpful voice within the community, she's also a fantastically diverse writer. Her gallery contains beautiful snippets of poetry and engaging pieces of prose.”
DearSweetPapercut
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Mature Content
PictureMascara smeared across pillowcases
Like footprints in snow
A picture of restlessness
Stepping over the cracks in the pavement
Greeting the silent shadows
Standing at the bus stop
Waiting for a one way ticket to winter
Write out an apology for leaving
But it is for the best
Being alone feels so right
It's the way it should be
Bright eyes and another day
Starting again
Summer is wasted
On the lonely
Waiting for the cold
Like a blanket of honestly
Of what it feels like
Let the truth be told
So many people alone
In one place
Count the windows in the office block
That is the future
One day there you will be
A blank expression
Someone empty
Where no one will know
No one will remember.
A grey city view
Cloudy skies
Walk on the curb
Keep your balance
Be lost in the moment
Passenger seat
Another move
Leaving again
Goodbye
Sorry
Shaking, cold fingertips
Clasping at one last attempt of warmth
A picture of giving up
Colours- PrologueI'm a person like any other person. I'm made up of the same blood vessels, bones, skin, pores and vital organs other human beings are. I'm a person created with a mix of hopes, dreams and sympathy; created with scars, character flaws and mistakes.
I had a life like any other, I had a childhood. I survived the awkward years of adolescence and made it to adulthood.
For most of those years I attempted to be the best person I could be. The person they wanted me to be. The person I should have been. I followed norms and tried my best; gave it my all. My life was like a Dulux colour chart filled with highs like "Blossom White" and lows such as "Richmond Green". These complimentary colours fill my life.
I see each part of my existence like a pot of paint splattered unevenly across a wall. The colour would please the eye with its newness but as time went by it becomes another shade waiting to be restored. As with paint in life there is always a want for change. There is that want for something
ItIt was today
While baking a cake for you
I smelt sugar for the first time
Stood there in the kitchen
Apron
That black dress you like
Bare foot
And it hit me
I don't know what it was
Not exactly
It was like a feeling of recklessness
Mixed with caution
Perhaps it was just stress
Hitting me
Finally
Breaking me down
Something that sweet tea
And vinyl records can't fix
Something that will require time
I sit in the afternoon sun
Drinking coffee
A habit you've always hated
One of my many bad habits
I think of you
Somewhere caught up in your life
Wearing that focused frown
That always made me smile
A cigarette slowly burning
Out in between your fingers
I think of your deepest green eyes
Your beautiful smile
And that mix of cologne and smoke
That make me feel home
And
I realised what
"It"
really is.
Suggested by: RunningBear5858
“DearSweetPapercut is probably one of the best, consistent female writers I follow. Every piece she writes, whether be poetry or prose has a sort of raw beauty to it. She'll take the most every day things and paint them with a bright rainbow of language choices, making an unbelievably gorgeous piece that is still relatable to the reader.”
My Spotlight Deviant:
rushingtide
you'll suffer unto meI was a four-year-old fatherless pageant baby when Mother found the listing for Challenger. For weeks she complained about the California public school system. Said I wasn't fit for it, wasn't right for it. "We live in a shithole. Public school systems rely on money and the income in this area sucks. They're all hoodlums here. You'll get raped, mugged, killed, murdered and then what? All the I'm sorries in the world won't bring you back. I'm not letting that happen to you. You're getting a better foundation than I did at your age."
Mother always wanted the best for me, didn't care about the cost. She scoured the Yellow Pages for private schools, called them up, visited them with me in tow, dressed in pink and bouncing brown curls. Harker was the better, more expensive school, the rival to Challenger. Uppity kids wearing blouses, sweaters and in-fashion light-up shoes roamed both places. We settled on Challenger in the end. Mother didn't like the whole "boarding school" atmosphere at Ha
the wolf who cried boyThere once was a paranoid, schizophrenic Wolf who lived in constant fear that a Boy would come to kill them all. To prevent the slaughter, he warned his clan daily with throat-tearing screams. "It's the Boy! It's the Boy!" he cried and wailed. "The Boy is standing there with a gun to my head!"
His snarling brothers and sisters arrived to his aid constantly, claws unsheathed, fangs bared. When they found no Boy, like usual, they turned on him. "You sick bastard," they barked, "stop imagining things! Take the medication the Old One prescribed you. You are not well and you need help."
Though the Wolf feasted on the berry-flavored perphenazine the great Old One suggested, his visions of death never ceased. The Boy haunted his peaceful dreams of good hunting and gentle grooming, turned them into gut-curdling nightmares of pelted skins and bloody innards. Even awake, the Boy appeared in places once comforting, like the forest shadows, the rippling lakes, the soft breezes and the hearty prey.
Trinny’s spirit, soul, humor and determination are what make her writing the remarkable and honest story telling that it is. She has a true talent for bringing to vibrant life everything she takes to her pen, and describing it in such a way that makes us stop to wonder what beauty we are missing out on. She is a true original and her unique flare is unforgettable.
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?There's this great quote Henry Rollins said that sums up my feelings about writing. "The better you get at [writing], the harder it is, because it’s less time that you bullshit yourself. I’ve met a handful of writers and they’re pretty miserable people. Because they know that the beast is sitting in the room saying, ‘Come on. You know you’ve been playing around with your friends long enough. Back to class.’" I write because I have to. There is no other choice. Sometimes it gives me joy, like when I write a humorous story, or an emotional moment between two characters. Other times I want to tear my hair out, agonizing over a sentence that won't come out correctly. But I can't stop.
Oftentimes your pieces are written based on things that have personally impacted you. Why do you feel this sort of writing has more of an impact?This is a great question. I do tend to write stories where I blatantly say they are pieces from my life, or there are elements of my life in a story. For me, this type of writing seems to work. I take things from my past, primarily from my rough childhood, and use them in my stories. I actually don't like to think too much why I am such a personal writer. I think all writers take pieces of themselves into their stories, but they are quiet about which character is them, or what is real and what is fiction. They let the reader decide. I don't know why I blatantly say, "This is real. This was my life." It's possible that I want to be honest with the reader, and show who I am, warts and all. Maybe it's because I strive for a connection with someone, even now at 22. I need to feel connected with someone, and by saying, "This is real. This was my life," it heightens the emotional value of the story to another level. As reader and as author, we feel emotionally connected, no matter where we are in the world, what the color of our skin is or our beliefs. Emotion is what humans feel, and emotion is how we connect.
What things inspire you? Everything-- okay that's too broad of an answer. Primarily, it's music. I listen to a lot of film soundtracks and post-metal to get the gears going. I also listen to classic rock from the 60s to the 80s, primarily focusing on the genres of metal, hip-hop and soul. Other times I get inspiration wherever I go. Movies, books, my family, my past. The airport. I love airports. My home state. It's my dream to drive everywhere in the United States and live in cities for a few weeks. Who knows what stories I can find there. I even get inspired by what I see outside my window when I go to work. One idea hits me, and in three to five seconds, I have a whole story in my head, ready to be written.
What motivates you to share your writing on DeviantART?It's the community. I've met some wonderful people here who have given me great constructive criticism on my pieces, and who have supported me during some dark times. Even random strangers who came to my aid when I was in need. But I primarily post my writing because I know there will be people who can comment and critique the stories if they wish to. I want to improve, always. Any writer wants to improve.
Which piece featured is your favorite and why? “Far From Refuge”. It's the first piece I wrote that was not personal, and I feel showcases my style of writing -- minimalist emotion -- without blatantly stating where pieces of myself were in it. It's also my first science fiction story ever written. I'm a huge sci-fi nerd, so this piece was intimidating. It needs revising in terms of world building, so an expansion on its setting and scientific logic, but I'm proud of it.
rushingtide 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 December 19th at 7pm EST! (What time is this for me?) And as an extra incentive: for those of who offer rushingtide 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!
Our Wonderful Suggesters and Volunteers Jade-Pandora
SadisticIceCream
wyldhoney
KneelingGlory
RunningBear5858
rushingtide
Iluvocnj2006
WorldWar-Tori
Kaz-D
If this article struck your fancy and you are looking for ones similar, check these out! LadyLincoln’s previous issues of The Ladies of Lit. Volumes I, II, III and IV.
GaioumonBatou, GwenavhyeurAnastasia, Halatia, and nycterent’s November DDs.
the-photographicpoet’s The A, B, C’s of Literature: G, H and I.
LadyLincoln’s: 30 Writers You Should Discover.
DailyLitDeviations’ Daily Lit Deviations for December 6th.
namenotrequired’s Darkest Corners Lit 8: Six Word Stories.
WorldWar-Tori’s Lit Bits: Volume V.
Iluvocnj2006’s Living Literature: Volume VII.
LitandNews’ Issue Two.
Happy holidays,
LadyLincoln
April: Future in Delightful Bloom
Welcome to April! As a new month begins, another busy spring season starts. I am nearing the end of another exciting semester. This time, I am finishing up with my last English, Professional and Technical writing course— but with a major project in the works that I hope to share some details with you soon I am so excited about! Basically, it is an accumulation of many of my works throughout the course of time on the digital and writing front and I hope my dedication and commitment will show. As many know here on DeviantART, I tend to dive into everything I do with my full heart and soul. Ideally, I hope what I am creating will help lead me toward my big dream of designing, editing and writing on a more full-time basis. I also wanted to take a moment here again to thank those who continue to show me their friendship and support. I know it express it often, but it does mean the world to me—especially when life is so terribly busy for all of us. These thoughts, hugs, positive tidings
March: Heart, Soul and Hope
Welcome to March. I hope with spring comes brighter days filled with more sunshine and hopefulness. These recent days, I have honestly felt trapped in a stagnant place where there hasn't been an escape and needed to press forward toward a more welcoming light. I have been traveling down different roads and looking in other distinctive directions, hopeful for solace and sanctuary. I do hold onto my words and to my writing, knowing well there is some beauty left there, even if my heart continues to feel empty every day. My full-time work at the therapy clinic and school do keep me distracted from other enjoyable social activities...although I keep trying to reach out. I realize that it is a busy season for many of us, but I miss the camaraderie of different activities and of my closest friends— the ones like Bridget, who entered my life three years ago like a quiet whirlwind when I direly needed a sincere friend after Terry passed away. But even she, along with many others I have
Tragic Tears Laced in Grief
The day you were taken is still a blur. I still cannot bring myself to go back to that moment. All I know is time stood still and my heart shattered into a million pieces. The day you were taken was the hardest day of my life– and a part of me went with you. ❤ Years later, my grief still cries out into what feels like a hollow abyss. The pain is not as intense as it was in the beginning, but it lingers on inside the caverns of my fragile heart much like a loud, yet silent plea thrown out to someone else on a lifeboat before deep diving into the icy waters. You desire to completely drown but you cannot do it— and somehow, you have to keep on living. It never gets easier looking around you and realizing the one person you desperately need to lean on for support is no longer there, especially when your fragmented heart aches to pick up the phone to call her, or reach out for an embrace to feel safe and protected again. Life is never what it was after experiencing a devastating loss.
February: Faith and Light
Welcome to February. This month, I typically enter into a quiet and personal season of deep reflection and continued healing. February and March have always been a difficult time for me because I lost my momma and still miss her each and every day. As an aside, seasonal weariness and sorrow are also a very real thing, though the sun has finally come out after weeks of gloominess and it does help uplift my mood. I continue to keep positive as I slowly move forward, though often longing for spring and summer- while holding onto happier things and to treasure my blessings. It seems so simple, but it is not always as easy to keep in that mindset when you feel overwhelmed with sadness at times. I know both my momma and heart-dad would want me to follow my own path, hold onto my happiness and to meet my goals. I stay busy with various things, most notably with school— maintaining a 4.0 grade average I am still proud of, and helping one of my close friends plan her dream wedding in
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I wouldn't mind some "Men Who Write" articles. How about a genre-specific literature news series? That wouldn't cause any problems, right?
Anyway, I'm still enjoying this one. Good thing there are so many literate/literary females in the world. And this series is nicely formatted, too. Informative and easy on the eyes.
Anyway, I'm still enjoying this one. Good thing there are so many literate/literary females in the world. And this series is nicely formatted, too. Informative and easy on the eyes.