The Ladies of Lit: Volume VI

Jan 7, 201129 min read

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Published: Jan 7, 2011

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Welcome to volume six 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 lovely 3wyl. 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!

Leah-the-Red
:thumb164503277:

_{Suggested by: IsBreaLiomCaife

“Leah-the-Red is an absolute delight to work with and a friend to everyone. She's awesome to edit for and work with. And she's always there to have great conversations about writing, plot elements, and the details of things. Her writing, particularly her sci-fi, is extremely vivid, and she has a particular talent for bringing characters, even aliens, to life and creating realistic, relatable, vibrant characters, even in the most seemingly out-there settings, which she also relates quite well.”}

ejectionletter
FirstsI had sex
for the first time
on a Sunday
when
October air
ate away the blinds
and snake-lines of light
pressed in
at undone corners.
I remember less of you,
and more of me,
cocooned
in yellow sheets
how you kept mumbling
questions and I
lay there,
still.
The prodding,
the jostle,
are so much less vivid
than the sense
that I was shedding
skin
becoming something,
tighter,
slimmer,
more stream-lined.
So that later
in the bathroom,
I saw myself,
the mirror
twisting my hipbones
into
shelves that I could
rest my elbows on.
I was nineteen
then,
so you,
two times my weight,
welding my bones
into yours,
made me feel
ten years less lonely. MetamorphismOur fingernails
and skin
became fossils
after so many
years spent
entwined,
submerged in sea
water
we precipitated
into mineral,
both of us
grown so old.
How would we
exist apart,
a mess of shell
shapes and rock
salt,
grooves where eels
had touched our skin,
come and gone
each tidal season.
Our skeletons eroded
into atoll-shaped
holes in the sea,
turquoise blue
bone lagoons.
And then
once again
we were reef
memories,
you a head of coral
and I,
a breathing
fan of lace. FloodThe sun came out this week
after a full year of rain,
my lips puckered,
fingers pruned like
the skin around old-woman
ankles.
I wrung my hair of salt
and old sea lions,
until it was dry and limp,
let water spill out my ears
until the floor was wet.
You came in with the mop
and limped about a mess
of ocean
the water-weak floor groaning,
cleaned up a life of liquid.
In your yellow bucket
the year looked miniature
and muddy,
not nearly half as deep
as it had fell. cocklesyour heart is a cockle shell and i work my hands into pleats of calcium carbonate until i am covered in pink dust and you're nothing but smooth.
remember, you whisper. to nothing, or the sea, or the vastness of being. or maybe just me standing alone in the kitchen.
i'm remembering your gray sweater, the way your hands could circle around your wrists, the way yours bones looked like topographical maps in lamplight. i'm remembering you cooking pasta over the stove and asking me why i was so goddamn useful. because it's hard to leave people like that.
you were always so afraid of being forgotten. of being cast out like fishing lines at night, thin thread across a deepening ocean. you thought earthquakes had the power to swallow you up.
but i'm remembering. i'm remembering you asking me not to follow, not to call, not to whisper your name into dead phone lines at night because you knew i was a poet and poets were prone to do those sorts of things.

_{Suggested by: KneelingGlory

“ejectionletter, apart from hailing from my corner of the world, writes some of the most relatable poetry on DeviantART. Her words are drenched in emotion without being maudlin or cliche.”}

orphicfiddler
The Rat and the DollSome time ago there lived a Rat of fine whiskers and a finer tail who stumbled across a small porcelain Doll in a farmer's rubbish heap. Entranced by the Doll's beauty, he carried her home with him and, to the amusement of his fellow rats, instated her as his wife. Finding that she was of little assistance in his daily rambles for food, the Rat placed her upon a slight ledge of the barn in which he lived and brought her an offering of sustenance each day, as well as flowers and other pretty objects with which to enhance her loveliness.
One day the Rat returned from his foraging to find the other rats throwing pebbles at his Doll. "Stop!" he cried. "Why do you abuse my wife? What has she ever done to you?"
"She does nothing at all," said the other rats, "and that is the problem. How has she proven herself worthy of the attention you grant her, or the offerings you provide?"
"Her beauty proves her worth," claimed the Rat.
But at that moment, a gust of wind swept the Doll off her perch an Shakespearean SonnetsKATE!
O Kate, my Kate, my sweet and lovely KATE!
So fiery in thy Kate-ish, Kate-ly hue,
Upon thy words I hang with breath abate,
Though hang me fast thy words would gladly do;
And yet I swear thy tongue is honey-laden,
Dripping as it is with sickly-sweet
Enticements over stings, my bee-ish maiden,
Though I will lap whatever thou secrete.
O say the sun is moon, the moon is golden,
A bright and bawdy sovereign in the noon,
A lunatic am I to thee beholden,
By night, by day, by mania or swoon.
      But dear, it matters not what thou hast said,
      And kiss me, Kate! for Sunday we will wed!
                                   ~ Petruccio
Petruccio –
      You sing poesy like a tongueless cur. Choke upon your lines, you mutt Trickster's GambitThere are many of us in the forest. Grimmlings, we are, imp-wraiths of the woods. All the same, each to each, such that even where there is one, there is no I. And we slither unseen through the prickly brush, and you do not see us, for you do not even know we are there.
We are tricksy, foolish mortal, and it is best that you do not cross us, for we serve the Erl-King, and he is a vengeful lord, though fair and pleasing to the mortal eye. And this he knows, ah, this he knows too well, for he likes to lure the maidens to the forest there, and they do not often return to their village homes. Some stay with us and join our court, but others do not, and it is they who the villagers find floating in the streams, strewn with wreaths of flowers, and it is they who wake up dead upon the barren drifts of snow beneath the ancient pines, enveloped in brightly colored swaths of their own red blood.
There is a Man-King who lives above the village in a castle upon a hill. He had a son o The Harpist's TaleI have always loved strife
All of my life
I have tried and travailed
Endeavored and failed
To pluck from my harps the most dissonant chords
For my kings and liege lords
Yet my strings only hum
Keep it mum, while I strum
And will not reflect the strange cords of my heart
The discordant cords at the core of my heart
That will not in life take a sensible part
So walking one day
It was spring—surely May?
I happened to traverse a broad river’s bank
And there, wet and lank
Hair of gold, skin of pearl
Bleached near white by the swirl
‘Twas a maiden who washed on the shores of the flow
Whose lithe body danced with the ebb and the flow
While the little waves played with each curled furbelow
I thought for a bit
Bit my lip, till it lit—
An idea of slyness that twirled through my head
For a maiden so dead
Doth no purpose serve
Lest I alter her curve
And form from her body the loveliest harp
The most glorious, dulcet, unusual harp;
‘Twas either she that, or a meal for the c

_{Suggested by: Memnalar

“You can easily choose any piece of writing in Tess' gallery, and it will be worth your time. Each verse carries music, each story is memorable and refreshing, and every word reveals a well-read and lively imagination.”}

Sapph0
Mourning Fish

Hemingway was belly-up and twitching the next morning. That was what she called her goldfish, the one she had won at a fair in her Sophomore year of high school—Ernest Hemingway. It had seemed like a clever name at the time. She sat up in bed with her quilt bunched around her hips, and leaned forward until her nose was only a few inches from the glass bowl. She shivered in her T-shirt and panties, and barely caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, an expression of such distraught disbelief on her face that she had to look again to make sure her bedroom hadn’t been invaded by a bizarre look-alike who seemed even more upset at the death of the goldfish than she herself was.
He wasn’t dead. Or she wasn’t dead—Chelsea had never had occasion to decipher Ernest Hemingway’s proper gender. The goldfish, a cheap ten cent feeder fish, floated listlessly at the top of still, slightly murky water. He’d gotten big over the years (five of them in all now). Big f Cream Cigar

And I think of Marlene Dietrich
when your teeth tease that cigar.
sexually,
crimson lipstick smears
your masculine feminine
mouth drag
slowly, smoke on your lips
like cream in black
French coffee.
And your mouth is a poet
Think of Emily
dickenson.
The poet I loved.
you, girl, and your pale ankles
bleeding blue, faded rose of adolescence
And I have missed the scribe
of your poetry lips.
(You call me Iphis and
I'll call you Ianthe)
Still muse of my passion
you my wayward girl
And I think I'll just stay here, sitting
listening to that pretentious new age folk
on the café radio.
And I think
the sunset has just as many colors
when watched alone. The Audacity of the Spoon

The way our spoons touched
in the sink like sterling lovers
after I made you soup
when you were sick
on a Tuesday
illicit uniformity
tentatively touching
waiting for the sponge
and I, reluctant to disturb
the forbidden culinary affair.
and the memory of my lips
meeting the echo of your lips
embossed in sterling silver
I'd never tell you
I'm jealous of
the audacity of the spoons
I wonder what the teapot would think. Stoning Jezebelcrudely, she whispers obscenities in my ear
my chain-smoking Jezebel plucking
my tendons like a lyre
Jezebel, my unquiet muse
tapping inscrutable messages on my eardrums
and peeling back my eyelids just
as she begins to feed me Delphic dreams
stumbling my steps she leaves
cigarette burns underneath my toenails
and gives me a discount on her
mescalinic hallucinations
I strangled her with pharmacist's hands
fed her a poison-laced cup of
decaf black tea.
hid her body in the back of my mind
and slept off my homicidal weariness
'til she kicked my skull awake
an incensed fetus, fiercely
screaming obscenities in my ear.
I kiss her cracked lips and
weep for lunacy.

_{Suggested by: SadisticIceCream

“Sapph0's writing always contains a touch of the mythological, the legendary, the literary, combined with an original musicality of language.”}

majorkerina
Mecchen House - ProloguePrologue – The Way to Mecchen House
I was tapping away at the keyboard when I heard Nathan approach behind me. I didn’t say anything at first. I just adjusted my glasses and continued typing. He took a deep breath.
“Dude, you really need some time out. How long have you been staring at that screen?” Nathan rested a beefy arm against a bookshelf. A manga book tumbled off. He coughed a little and crouched down to get it. “Sorry about that. I’ll umm… I’ll put it…” He aimed the book all over the shelf. Not a single inch was open. He glanced over at the other bookshelves. It was the same.
I smirked. “Just leave it on the bed for now.” Nathan liked hanging out in my room while I worked. I could never really figure out why, but we were old friends, so it was no problem.
He claimed he liked the “art of girls” on my walls and the “female figurines” which covered the available space. I Girly Farts TGGirly Farts
For once, Terica's garage wasn't on fire when I came over to visit. Pink smoke was belching through a crack in one of the windows though. I knocked on the metal door and waited.
After some mild cursing and coughing from within, the door slid up. Terica had on her regular lab coat with the words above the pocket protector, "Doctor Terica Snorf – Mad Scientist". Her long, frizzy brunette hair gave off a puff of smoke just behind her ear. She patted it out with her blue-gloved hands and mentioned, "Some things are a bit more flammable than they say..."
I nodded and said, "I've noticed. Need anything? Where are your goggles?" Terica always wore her goggles in her laboratory garage and sometimes even out and about. I noticed a small bruise on her forehead.
She answered, "They melted. I could've used a little more dihydrogen monoxide earlier. But it's under control now."
A bright "FOOM"ing wall of fire erupted from behind Terica. I backed away but she assured me, "It' Meanies TGMeanies
Mona hummed to herself as she locked the front door of the video game store and pulled the metal chain cover in place. Most of the clerks hated closing, the loneliness and staying late after everyone had left to take care of accounting and setup for the next day. Not Mona. She loved it.
Turning from the storefront, she drank in the muddy gray sky. The perpetual tide of the harsh parking lot lights mixing with the amber trickle of street lights made sure any and all stars were washed away by the glow of the city. Mona had seen stars in the sky once as a kid, on a family vacation in the desert. She cried the whole time about the strange lights which filled the usually-blank heavens.
No, for Mona, it was only the moon and the colorless sea. She lingered a moment with the slender crescent of the moon and brushed back her hair, a detailed weave of blond and mint-gum colors which was densest at her shoulder.
After she'd had her moment with the dull-gray abyss, Mona walked slow TG Boys vs. GirlsBoys vs. Girls – Water Fight
Runt's quivering, shrill voice echoed, "What are we gonna do?! They just got our commander with a water balloon assault! We're doomed!"
Flannel flashed his large hand, which looked more like a high schooler's than someone in sixth grade, over Runt's mouth. It completely muffled all but a faint, fearful murmur from Runt. Leaning close to Runt, Flannel said, syllable by methodical syllable, "Shut…up."
With a loud swallow, Runt clenched his mouth closed and barely seemed to breathe as Flannel slowly released him from his grip.
I, "Tuna" by codename, looked to Flannel and wondered if I should take this as a gesture that he wanted to lead the group. Unfortunately, Flannel glanced over at me and asked, "Orders?"
The balloon assault which that had claimed Krait, our commander, came out of nowhere. I shuddered about how close I had been to the action.
The battle began fairly. We were properly-equipped and ready to set up our initial def

_{Suggested by: Princess-Kay

“Gender benders are pretty popular on DA, but completely overlooked outside of their fandom. Kerina works hard to produce multiple story types that range from amusing to deep; some of her stories show the mental processes behind the characters, and some of them are simply there for fun.”}

My Spotlight Deviant:

3wyl

ForgottenI just want to lie
down. I just want to rest. So
leave me… it’s quiet. Obsessive-CompulsiveLook at my room and it is a mess, a mess, a mess, a mess, a mess. Lock the door, make sure it is locked. 2 4 6, 4 6 8, 6 8 10, 8 10 12, 10 12 14. Must make sure it is locked, locked, locked, locked, locked. 2 4 6, 4 6 8, 6 8 10, 8 10 12, 10 12 14. It should be locked, [it is fine] (shouldn't it?).
Too many things and yet not enough time, not enough, not enough, not enough, not enough. Have to be quick. Arrange, order, align. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10. Arrange, order, align. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10. Arrange, order, align. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10. Arrange, order, align. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10. Arrange, order, align. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10. Push it back, must make it square, must hear the clunk of it meeting, must hear it, must hear it, must hear it, must hear it. Now to count, must make sure it stays, must make sure it is not out of place, not out of place, not out of place, not out of place, not out of place. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10. Move on to the next, must make it square, must hear the clunk of it mee the f'l'ail of Wingsit's curving
Over on its own accord
try to push it
back
but it's like
feeling sinewy muscles
bone
flapping flapping
fragile
crust shedding over this
husk of a carcass
already too far
gone
it protrudes awkwardly
like one's vacillating kiss
ingenuous, chaste, amidst an
untamed silence needing to
be fulfilled
all the while feeling the
deformity
like a man's lugubrious cry
when capitulated
or like an asphyxiated man trying
to gasp in the air he needs
to live
though it is
i r r e c o n c i l a b l e
where split divisions provide
obstruction
to this way, to our way
it hurts…
to pin this back
}and{to keep these wires
fluttering
}and{to make sure it is in shape
when
all it wants to do is
curve. TalkI wish my mouth was
Sewn { s.t.i.t.c.h.e.d } shut so that people
would know I didn't -

_{Elaine’s writing has such delightful imagery and vibrant detail. Each piece immediately pulls you into a colorful realm unlike any you would ever imagine. Getting acquainted with her words is like reading a comforting book by the fireplace.}

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 to sublimate. I used to write for the sake of writing and creating worlds that were real, and yet...not real, as well.

Nowadays, I only write if I feel intense emotion and I need an outlet for that, or if a thought is particularly bugging me (which is linked quite closely to my feelings too, I guess).

Whenever you feel inspired to write, what are the first few things that come into your mind as you are writing?

I am always aware of the diction I use. I try to portray what I feel and what I mean as accurately as I can because it is so, so hard to really encapsulate and form what I want so that readers understand. Even then, it is uncertain whether they get the full extent of it.

It depends on what I am writing, though. For poetry, the structure and the visual implications of the piece itself are the first few things that come into my mind. The way the words are set out is very important to me, because each bit means something, no matter how insignificant.

My prose reflects that as well, sometimes, but it's more about the beginning and creating an effective impact to immediately engage the attention of the audience.

It is pretty technical, but it comes almost naturally to me. As I am writing, everything is already there, in a sense. The emotion is certainly there, and my thoughts as well. It's all just phrasing it and structuring it in a way that is satisfactory to me, but also for the audience as well. I guess you could see it as a clump of clay in front of you, ready for your fingers to shape and mold into something beautiful.

When did you first discover your passion for writing and what keeps you doing it?

I think I have a love and hate relationship with writing, to be honest. I was very much in love with it when I was 12/13 years old, but I had good reason to be. I think I primarily wanted to escape so much from my own life that I started to create another, and I guess it just started from there.

As for the hate part, we don't get along, I have to admit. Sometimes I slap it around the face and it slaps me, but it's the thought that it's a different type of art, one that asks you to look deeper below the surface, and it's the fact that I can't draw and I can't photograph what I am feeling inside, so I suppose the next best thing is to write what I am feeling, and convey my thoughts and emotions there.

What motivates you to share your writing on DeviantART?

Every piece contains a bit of myself, and so every piece has a bit of truth in it that relates back to my life and the experiences that I have had. I guess you could call it a relationship between the writer and the reader, but it's mostly the community and the sharing of thoughts, opinions and interpretations that I am open to. I find it fascinating how a person can interpret something in some way, and another in a different way...and I guess that's just the beauty of art.

I don't share my literature on DeviantART often. I have written quite a bit, but it's all saved in a document, waiting to be shared. When I feel it's the right time, I post it, but until then, it's kept safe and secret...I guess I share because it feels like the right time for me to not keep it a secret any longer. Then again, it doesn't mean as much if there is no audience out there to read what you have written, especially if you have placed a piece of yourself there.

I think it's mainly the understanding that passes between writer and reader, and the connections made, as well, that pull me into sharing.

Which piece featured is your favorite and why?

Ah, it's so very hard to choose just one, because every piece means a lot to me.

“Forgotten”

It's going to have to be that one. I contemplated the others, and much as I do like those, I keep coming back to this one, so I guess you could call it an old favourite.

It's my favourite form of poetry (although I admit it doesn't sound very poetic), but mostly, I choose this because all of the thoughts that I had and the feelings that I felt whilst typing this out resurfaces and comes alive, once again. It's a point that marks out my life, and it portrays my struggle of trying to express what I felt into words. It might not be or look like much, but...it's something that is true, and I feel it nearly every day sometimes, even though I wrote this a year or so ago.

3wyl 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 January 15th at 6pm EST! (What time is this for me?) And as an extra incentive: for those of who offer 3wyl 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!