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 UntamedUnwanted. 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 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!
Some Lovers III died on a cold
day, numbed fingers flexing,
grasping at the last traces of embers
withering in the grate.
I died holding your hand,
the hand I accidentally fractured
when I pushed you too
harshly near an edge
and you flailed to find
a more elegant way
to fall and then
I heard the scaphoid crack
but I didn't. I heard the cry
first and the pain came later
but you held my
I died with my arms
held over my head,
pinned down to the sheets by your solid
mass, fingers entwined
with yours until I
could no longer tell which bones
were my own. I baked
in the aftermath of the dying
heat and felt the blood
back into my fingers
before forgetting again
as you sighed into my neck.
I died on a cold
day, but I never felt
Recipe for Disaster196 Nations
1 Nuclear Strike
1 Retaliation Maneuver
6 Billion Dead
Don't bother baking -
the radiation will take care of it.
Drowning in Reverse II vii. I still have your phone.
vi. The boardwalk carnival was shut down a few months later, roped off and boarded up like a condemnation of joy. The Ferris wheel rose high above the skyline, towering in silent reminder. I had to look at it every day on the ride to school. But it still hurt a little less than the pitying glances cast my way when no one thought I was looking.
v. The funeral was on a beautiful, balmy, sunny day and somehow that made it all the worse. The wind would pick up a little and ruffle your goldspun hair and I could hope, just for a moment, that you were still here. That the hollow thumping in my chest would be solid again. That we could still have a future, a family, a wire terrier puppy with an oversized backyard to play in, that we could have all those things. Together.
Suggested by: LadyofGaerdon
“SilverInkblot is so well-known for her dedication to the lit community that her writing prowess may be going tragically overlooked. She writes in a style confident and accessible, full of clever word play, innovative ideas and genuine heart.”
Pausing By The WineMarriage is
the frustration of reality
when the man who works the wine section
pauses in his tracks to make sure
you've found everything you "really need...are you sure?"
With a look that tells you
he finds you sort of beautiful
and you wonder how your life
might be different,
if any man other than this one
had ever looked at you like that.
Suggested by: LiliWrites
“This woman is a powerhouse of imagery and emotion. Her works are masterful and she's relatively unknown.”
The Sky is Falling TonightThe sky is falling tonight.
My toes curl inward
as I finish off a cigarette
and flick it to the street corner.
Looks like it might rain.
I bite my lip and taste metal.
A car rolls by with the windows
down and a tanned arm
hanging out the side.
My granddaddy once said
that on the very last day
no one will cry except the earth itself.
I can't hear a thing,
but I smell gasoline and regret.
My granddaddy's tombstone
once had a lipstick stain on it
from where my grandmamma
kissed him goodbye.
I won't even have a tombstone.
The playground is vacant,
the swings rocking in the subtle wind
as if carrying invisible children.
The dirt ground below
dips into a concave bowl.
I wonder if
the thumb of Gob pressed it in.
The clouds are charcoal black
and it occurs to me for the first time
that I will die alone.
I hug myself.
A serpentine chill slithers up my back.
But then I realize
everyone will die alone.
The end will find us all
warped and withered
with nothing left but those fears
we spent o
Dead Bodies Don't Cryi.
You are born with twisted feet
and a pockmark on your chest.
Your poor mother is drenched in sweat,
straining to breathe,
thanking God it's over.
She cradles you in her arms
and kisses your forehead with curved lips.
Your father reaches out to hold you
but has to pause because
your mother will not release you yet.
The family pays a visit,
hovering in awe, praising, laughing.
You look around for someone to blame.
When you learn to write
you use all the wrong letters
because you feel sorry for the ones
that get left out, like X and Z.
And you wear mismatched clothes
because you don't like the idea that
only certain colors "go together."
The first time you are punched
in the face it is by a girl with pigtails and braces.
You're sitting on a swing,
digging your toes into the dirt,
when she approaches
and says she thinks you're weird.
You tell her she's even weirder, and her fist
goes sailing into your jaw.
You're red and sore for two days.
You meet your first crush
on bleachers that
Snow GlobesPeople never cry in snow globes,
or have to get rushed to the hospital.
There are no playground fights
or nighttime murders
or mornings where overtired adults
have to wake up at six
to go to dead-end jobs.
People don't change clothes in snow globes,
and there are no bullies.
The snowmen never melt,
lips never turn blue,
and there are no car crashes.
No one moves
everyone is statuesque and perfect.
People don't join the military in snow globes,
and they never die in wars.
Children never grow,
their dogs never get run over,
and they never have to go to bed
or begrudgingly eat their vegetables.
People don't think in snow globes.
There are no countries or religions,
crimes or accidents,
miseries or dreams.
No one breathes or bleeds or hopes.
They just wait, their permanent smiles
plastered on their faces,
for the globe to do a 360 and the snow to fall
all over again.
Suggested by: ATrue
“It's hard to find a writer online that doesn't try too hard to be poetic, but TheEmptyChest writes with a simple style that is so honest, you can't help but feel the emotion. You could argue her poems are really prose with line breaks, and that might normally bother you, but somehow, you don't mind when she does it.”
Suggested by: SadisticIceCream
“EmbodimentOfSin20's thoroughly modern interpretations of traditional themes, like Biblical lore and mythology, are infused with just the right amount of grit. Her transgressive style will definitely keep you hooked on her stories.”
EpiphanyI study my face in the mirror: my hair, my eyes, my mouth. I find flaws everywhere.
I write, I love myself, on the mirror in blue temporary ink. I write, I love myself, on my hand, my arm, my shoulder.
Cam saw what I did. He said, You should.
Sestina for the WaryMy friend asked me, "Why do you run
when you cross the street?"
I looked at her and swallowed
the cold in my throat. "I don't know," I said as we separated
at the student parking lot full of cars
owned by cocky adolescents too young
for brakes and steering wheels. Too young
to understand the world they'll one day run
while indulging in too-expensive cars
they'll go into debt trying to pay for. These street
kids will do anything to separate
themselves from the crowd. They believe they're swallows
in a sky of robins. They don't know how to swallow
their pride. When they were young.
school and home were separate,
and friends were people they'd run
into while playing tag on the street,
a chalk and asphalt playground with cars
serving as backboards to dents and scratches. We care too much for cars
that get wrecked by storm and branches, cars that swallow
our air as if the street
produced spare oxygen. We're too young
for the responsibility of gasoline-run
machines. The DMV should have a sep
Suggested by: ThornyEnglishRose
“RockerLane1110's gallery is a window back into childhood and adolescence, and a lesson in how to write well about those experiences. Her stories and poems are filled with truth, beautifully crafted, heart-warming without being sentimental, and sometimes jarring. She is a highly observant writer, seeing the balance of beauty and ugliness in life, and replicating it in her words.”
My Spotlight Deviant:
Bones"There are good days and there are bad days," you would say to me as you would try and explain away why the whiskey bottle was empty again this morning, why you smelled like her and why you thought it was best to let me know what you had done. At least that way, you were absolved of the gift of lying; the one your bones were too light to lift and just couldn't take, by bestowing me with betrayal.
My mother would bring me an encouraging cup of tea in a giant pink mug instead of a cup and explain, "There are good days and there are bad days." Her eyes were always full of positive energy and strength and good will. I look back to those days and try and gain the strength she had in her bones from her words. I always fail.
They told me I had a disease within my bones. It started from the bottom of my knee and was moving upwards. Because that is what bones did. They broke from the inside out. "There will be good days and bad days," they warned me. I knew at that very point that it was going
Hemingway Would Hate ThisThe trouble with the Boy was that he didn't have the heart of Shakespeare, the voice of Poe, nor the soul of Wordsworth, nor the knowledge of Rembrandt in his darkest days. He didn't have a trace of Michaelangelo's spirit nor the angst of Carvaggio and this on its own was enough to dissuade him from understanding that technique was far better than solidarity and possession far more ageless than youth.
He didn't have any of this knowledge because his father hadn't had the courage to tell him that he needed all the qualities of these great men, to win over the heart of a woman who had the dreams of Austen, the ideas of Da Vinci and the scent of a high priestess of Venetian origin.
The Girl was all those things and more, and her value, her estimate in the market of souls was higher than most. She was an angel amongst Gods, and He should never have let her go into the world thinking that it was Keats hearted. Because like all women who live their lives story shaped, she was soon broken by
Moments"You know what, my love? I think I'm going to give you the twenty third of March."
The little boy looked up at me from his cereal and tilted his head slightly, as though pondering this. Then, he frowned. "Mama. That's not possible. How can you give me a day? Days can't be gifts!"
He got that incorrigible logic from his father. I smiled and wiped my hands on the dishcloth, moving to sit besides him. He was at that age where his eyes were huge, questioning and innocent, that age where pain was sometimes only healed when measured in love. I ran my hand through his thick, dark hair. "Yes, you can."
The spoon filled with milk and chocolate cereal clattered back into the bowl as he leaned back and crossed his arms. "No, you cannot. Da told me so."
"Yes, you can. I'm giving one to you, aren't I?"
"It's easy. A day is made of hours. And those hours are made of moments. Moments are so special, my sweet love. They are tiny, and they are supposed to be insignificant, but they are not.
Niki writes everything with passion, heart and purpose. Her writing is sometimes raw, but it gets to the very truth of what she hopes to express, tugging at your soul. There are simply not enough words to describe her beautiful writing.
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?
To breathe. No, really. I don't even know how to begin to start my day without writing something down anymore. I think, it is because of how my life experiences have shaped me, that I write simply to breathe now. If I ever feel a panic attack, fear, unhappiness come on, I start writing it down, just to teach myself how to breathe past it.
What other hobbies in your artistic life inspire you to keep writing?
I love everything about art. Fortunately, my parents liked to travel and I was exposed to some beautiful pieces of art from an early age as my mother enjoyed museums and art galleries immensely and I started sketching and illustrating at an early age. Photography certainly inspires me to write...there is poignancy to a still image, to something captured in time that is beautiful. By trade, I am a graphic designer and I love making stop motion films. I also do a little theatre; it allows me to escape into another person's life for a little while.
I suppose art is all in the mind in some ways as well. Doing a little of everything keeps me sane when it should actually drive me INsane.
Several of your literature pieces are based on your personal experiences. Do you feel that those incidences better shape your writing and give it more of an impact?
I think some of the most important writing is written for one self. It reads like a journal entry, or better yet, a letter to a dear friend, someone you hold close. Your reader is that friend, someone who you are telling about something that has hurt you, pained you, wounded you, or made you laugh and smile. Relating to someone on that level is something so dear to me and my own work. Sometimes, I feel it is highly emotional, technically, I completely agree I could do better on the language, but the simplicity in the words is what I feel at that time and what I would like to share with the world.
I genuinely believe that all writing comes from some very personal place and my experiences, my life are the biggest part of my writing. Like I said before, I write to breathe, and sometimes to remind myself what is truly important in life. I am blessed with some beautiful, kind individuals in my life and so many of my watchers are incredible people. It is so easy to be inspired from their lives and pick up my pen.
What motivates you to share your writing on DeviantART?
This place has become a home for me. My watchers have turned into family, friends. They are the people who I would like to share every joy, every sadness with because I do not have that support system at home. I do not even know how to begin to thank these wonderful people, who take the time to read my work, to comment upon it...to write to me. It makes me want to write every single day, just knowing that there are people out there who are willing to read my work and relate to it. That is why I share my writing here. That is why I call deviantART my family.
Which piece featured is your favorite and why?
My favourite piece has to be Moments. I wrote Moments for a very special person who just barely came into my life but made a massive impact before he left. And I remember crying the whole time I wrote it. But by the time it was done, the tears had run dry...and I could finally breathe again.
See? It always just comes down to breathing.
UntamedUnwanted 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 October 28th at 7pm EST! (What time is this for me?) And as an extra incentive: for those of who offer UntamedUnwanted 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!
If this article interests you, be sure to check these out!
LadyLincoln’s previous issues of The Ladies of Lit. I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII,IX,X,XI, XII, XIII, XIV,XV, XVI, XVII, XVIII, XX, XXI, XXII, XXIII and XXIV.
LadyLincoln’s 30 Writers You Should Discover: Volume XI
The Literature Community Volunteer’s September Literature DD’s
DailyLitDeviations’ Daily Lit Deviations for October 7th
dreamsinstatic’s Friday Night Features: LXVII
SixWordStories’ #SixWordStories Showcase: September 10 - 24
wyldhoney’s Writers with a Promise: #15