The Ladies of Lit: Volume XII

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LadyLincoln
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Welcome to volume twelve 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:

:bulletpink: This article’s deviant spotlight: featuring the talented bowie-loon123. 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.

:bulletpink: 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.

:bulletpink: 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!



TheLunaLily
OrchardYour fingers are guillotines,
purely purposeful machines.
You pluck the apple,
and carve it clean,
find the core,
suck out the seeds.
Take a life
and taste the power,
it's arsenic
and sugar sweet.
You thank God and the devil
with a crooked smile
that the day is young,
and so are they,
and just ripe enough
for you to eat. Baby or the BathwaterThere was a lady I once knew,
while in her period of blue,
who was sick of the life that she lived in a corner.
She prayed for a life with days and nights in Technicolor.
She wanted some excitement,
to be free and independent,
so she threw out her baby and kept the bathwater.
Sentimental or a hoarder?
It was not for me to judge her.
She said she needed her mementos, and never threw a thing away,
(except for her baby, her heaviest cement shoe).
It was a strange thing to see, the way she displayed proudly
the dirty, old bathwater that she saved and bottled carefully in her best jelly jar.
The water was cloudy and gray,
sad and muddled, just the way
you would imagine her thoughts would be.
I asked if she was happy, and she paused and replied simply,
"I have a man to fill my void, so I feel just fine,"
but when she talked, all I could hear was the sound of a flat line.
While she displayed her sickness proudly,
she sent a message silently,
behind her glassy eyes flashed a sign, "<em> LapsedOh Mary,
with your lips pressed tight,
a thin red line
on your face of white.
It is clear
that you have nothing to say to me.
And your arms are down at your sides,
with your hands spread out wide,
in a gesture
to tell me
I am on my own tonight.
Ave Maria,
I counted beads for you.
Do you hear me crying?
The dark is overwhelming.
Ever-silent Mary,
put me to sleep or kill me.
I sang Aves for you.
I raised my voice in hallelujahs
for you.
Mary,
they say
you take pity
on people like me.
So I clutch beads and sing Ave's,
but you never sing for me
in the dark when I need you.
Are these just beads after all?
Cheap and wooden,
sold as tickets to heaven?
Since I was small,
have I been taught to worship a statue? DorianHe strides in with golden shoes,
smelling like he bathed in booze,
showing off his new tattoos,
and taboos he bought in every hue.
"Possessions and pleasures, sustain me."
He turns from the mirror to his bed,
king-sized, silk sheets in shades of red,
lays down his sweaty, aching head,
prays again with fear his soul is dead,
"Possessions and pleasures, sustain me."

Suggested by: xlntwtch

“TheLunaLily writes poetry that has often caught my eye when I look around to see what poets are up to lately. Her work has also won awards, and rightfully so. It's not only lyrical, she also uses pounding rhythm, irony and blazing focal points.”


SkysongMA
:thumb172344184: BraveryOn Saturday the twenty-first of January, Elliot took a gun, pressed it to the strip of bone between his eyes, and shot himself. The bullet shattered the frontal bone of his skull, warping his features past recognition, and burrowed through his pre-frontal cortex into the midbrain. He died before the sound stopped echoing through his empty apartment.
This story isn't about that.
I worked with Elliot for only a little while—less than six months. Most of what I knew about him came from his desk. Unlike the smaller ones the secretaries and other reporters had, it was a stately, imposing thing. It would've been terrifying, especially to a mousy little girl like me, but it was covered in paperweights and spare pens and pictures of people hunting ducks. Anyway, Elliot himself denied fear: he was middle-aged, poised on the cusp between forty and fifty. His hair had already turned grey, but he didn't dye it, like he hadn't noticed he was getting older or just didn't care. He smiled more t ScalesMy trust in you is like a black snake
I hold between my hands.
He will not slip from me, not yet.
For now, he shimmers, gloating
over sleek black scales.
How he laughs when he sees my reflection
in his coils!
But soon—
Perhaps tomorrow,
perhaps not for years—
His eyes will gloss over,
turn milk-white like the venom that drips from his fangs.
And his skin...
that glorious skin...
Nothing more than an empty sheaf of paper
I clutch to myself,
though it's meaningless as all the words I ever wrote you.
And I will look down, expecting my face looking back,
And see nothing. The Dead GodThe room was large, quiet, and empty, and it smelled like death. It should have smelled like weathered stone, or dust, or moss that grows forgotten in dark places so long it forgets its name, but Rat knew death. He had tasted it the moment they walked inside this ancient church, and he longed to adjust and stop smelling it.
He wished he could walk closer to the three adults behind him, but he would get in trouble. He wasn't a scrawny child today; his job was to walk carefully and take the brunt of any traps he triggered so the adults would be all right. They were needed, after all: Theodora and the silent man had the magic, and Flim was a miner. And Rat... Rat was looking for stairs. Those stairs went down a hole flush with the floor, invisible until Rat almost tripped into it. He caught himself, and his fingers clenched around his light stone. It was a long way to fall. Rat swallowed hard before calling back. "Here!"
Flim started for Rat and his light, but Theo lingered, studyi

Suggested by: SadisticIceCream

“SkysongMA not only writes beautiful, imaginative pieces -- she's also unafraid of exploring darker, heavier themes in her work, themes which lend them an extra sense of gravity.”


stonehart
UnselveWhat was once my home, you remodeled.
It's a modern word, sure, but all it really means,
is that you changed the house I made a home.
We claim, the general public and I, that home is
where the heart is, and that certainly seems true,
but for the tick, tick, ticking that I hear in the walls.
You changed my heart, my heart's beat, song----
tearing down what I accepted as Truth;
without a thought, I let you.
I sailed away on the wood you replaced,
dreamed the dreams of the less-common things.
I heard the groan of old shacks enter my home...
and it comforted me in the strange way you do.
You kissed my supports and my lips, wishing me bliss,
a world filled with blissful thoughts of swollen, kissable,
enjoyable, lips. I knew you unshelfed me. Unselved me.
You created, Silly Hallam, in the destruction of me.
Rhett Butler once said there was money to be made
in the destruction of a civilization, and that reminds me,
of when you took my mind and shaped it, so I could see
the world through quest Hand-Drawn Balloonsit happened just like that
without words or reconcile.
we just were one day...
and that was okay.
no great thunder, no clap of shame.
no broken soliloquy begging for better days yet to come;
hearts were sure, souls were pure, we were
just children of the universe,
home within our skins.
infants reaching for familiar hands,
i reached for you.
it came down like rain, gentle and sure,
drizzling champagne down our upturn throats.
we were baby birds laughing at the sun.
if i had known it could have been like this,
i would have lingered long ago in your smile,
without the broken-winged birds and their broken-winged homes
far from the cries of the those in cages.
yet here I am, and that's okay.
  
beatnik child, i'd have been home in you
lingering in the cities of your heart
filling the skies with red balloons,
each one a gift, a gift for loving you.
i twined flowers in Raphael's hair,
kissing his cheek as I leave him long behind.
you'll find me here, in the afternoon's sun,
drinkin Secret PlacesI pressed my fingertips against the rail,
sliding my hands across the advertisements,
the lettering, the palest brick. Every piece of the
Underground.
Everywhere I went, I pressed my fingerprints
into my travels, wanting England to remember me,
breaking with convention, normalcy,
in my need to be remembered.
I am a self-called child of the universe,
and the stars called to me like no other that night.
I would have wept, had I been alone, but there they were,
and we shone brilliantly. Together, in the silence,
in the distance, the smell of time, wrapping with the
smell of your sweet tobacco.
I pressed my fingertips against wet stone, pushing
myself into the grooves of the patio brick. One day,
England will remember me...I turned my head,
counting sweet stars in London air. They sang to me,
as you did...what you said became true, because you said it,
and for a moment in time, I became exactly the child
you'll always remember. Kerriaye-ahye BonesKeeri, kerriaye-ahye, keerium, karue;
the crickets hummed.
We heard their echo, losing our course, breaking our current
Journeying through a brittle bayou of broken bone.
Bone shrieks, if you'll recall and it did;
It squealed sharply against our little ketch,
until the crickets ceased their singing.
Firebirds guided our descent into chaotic christening,
and if cricket song be our savior in the bone squealing silence
we were children wishing upon sinking stars.
The embers shown brilliantly in firebird maws
miniature stars clasped tightly in judgmental beaks;
we watched and wept for joy at our destruction.
I leaned back into the floor of our craft
Said a prayer and said goodbye in an ocean of death
Looked to the sky and saw tears spill like rain onto us.
Should the keeri, kerriaye-ahye, keerium, karue shrill...
bones breaking to dust under sailboat's siren song,
beware the crickets playing in the high-grass.
They lead into the dawn with the firebirds,
break brows and rudders, for the cha

Suggested by: Philthey

“stonehart is someone who's work I've always admired and I must confess am more than a little jealous of. Her writing is always an absolute pleasure to read, whether they're on the cheery side or not and I'd love it if more people got to share in it.”



Suggested by: ATrue

“OritPetra is a multi-talented artist with a remarkable gift for editing that many writers lack. Her deviations often include links to original versions where you can witness her remarkable thought process and the transformation of a good concept into a well-executed work of art.”


Solarune
AntesWe are We, the Hunters of greatest knowledge and spell-blood. We use spell-words to hunt and to Change our bodies to rocks or trees. It has long been forbidden to Change to other Hunters or Hunted, or to kill others of We; yet it happened, and without it We would not be living.
This is that tale.
This is a tale from before the Fire, before the Dark, when the world was still green and the sky was still blue.
We had a Pack in the north, running free under the moon. The hunt was good. The Pack was strong and the prey was weak. The prey was a Hunter, a small running-Hunter; and so he turned, hissing spell-words, but he was claw- and tooth-strong, not spell-strong.
The Pack closed in. The youngest drew first blood, hissing. Wait, the running-Hunter hissed in simple-speak, but the Pack would not wait after a wounding, and they sprang upon him; yet his flesh was familiar. The youngest shrieked as the blood on her claw turned black. It was not running-Hunter blood, but spell-bloo On The Division Of The SunAt some point, there is a moment where you have to step back from everything and lock your mind onto the first thing that crosses it. Me, I thought I heard the wind smiling. So I listened to it, and thought, this isn't so bad.
Until the weight of Splittime cracked it open, and I was back reeling in the
steel forest, holding a wrist made of sharp bones. Hak's bones were so thin that I could feel their shapes in my fingers. I could see his skin dragging like loose blinds.
"I go no further," he said, and his voice was like reeds jumping in the rain.
Close to Splittime, there is no visible change, but you can almost feel Lightset preparing to shut itself off. It always disorients me. I know, of course, why it's done, and I know our bodies can survive Darkhalf, and we won't even remember it until we wake up again, and I know the new world won't get any sunlight if it doesn't happen –
– but I still hate it.
"Don't be afraid," Hak said, when my eyes started to shutter for the Three WindowpanesI.
The city smokes in mirrors on an autumn day,
sewing sky patches. A dying leaf baking veins on
fire blocks and chimneys hashing wire over
the river. Old dyer staining all her clothes;
sunset braids and rust on roofs. The day
packs itself up, like powder.
II.
Midnight knows itself deeply, an abstraction
by the streetlights sketching out people and a bridge
holding them, or a cloud? They are split by squares,
and words and the shadow on the river-skin a rippling
flag. Scaffolds knot necks between the stars and
they are bare, for only the moon to comfort.
III.
Morning shadows the streets inverted, or perhaps
it was like that before. The sunrise is a butter-knife
smeared in marmalade: drained through roses, through
the river, and a hundred alleyways no-one sees
stitched in like eyes, breathy with the expectation
of the city weave pulling people-threads of laughter. Newspaper NotationThere was a newspaper sky that day, glued across the breakers. "REVOLUTION," said the sea. In a personal or global sense?
I'm a composer, he had said once to Leanne, when she teased him for sketching sonatas on coffee-shop napkins – I've been trained to hear music everywhere. She had laughed and asked him to write a piece for her, the syllables of her name bubbling like wind chimes. He couldn't explain how to change for to of. Music was never a choice – not his as a teenager, and not Leanne's when her laughter begged for translation.
He still had it, tucked away under the piano stool. It was more a dedication than a labour of love. A Letter To –. Leanne had flitted in from the kitchen as he finished writing it. She'd leaned over his shoulder with her hair bread-scented and asked, a letter to whom?
Some things aren't meant to have a recipient, he'd told her. She had looked at him oddly. Perhaps it was the first time that (s)he realised who (s)he was,

Suggested by: angelStained

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


My Spotlight Deviant:



bowie-loon123
:rose: :rose: :rose: :rose: :rose: :rose:

:thumb194457673::thumb193115843::thumb212966213::thumb136092191:


Jasmin’s creatively beautiful writing has several surprising twists and turns, but the heart of each piece really speaks out so vividly through her descriptions in both her remarkable prose and poetry.


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

:rose: Why do you write?

Writing - for me - began at an early age as a form of release; a way of venting cliche teenage angst amongst dark family secrets. It was an escape. Since then, I have grown from that and it isn't a way of battling with my frustrations or putting my past into perspective anymore. I have learned more than ever in the last three years or so to embrace literature as an art form, with all of its genres, techniques and impacts on others. Now I see what I do as art. I still use it to express myself, but in an artistic and imaginative way. I savour the execution, the act of writing itself. It's become so important to me.

I suppose nowadays, you could say I write because I genuinely love doing it, regardless of what purpose it may be subconsciously serving for me at the time. I don't see it as fun: Writing is too large a part of my life for me to call it fun. But it's definitely enjoyable seeing a little piece of me integrated in every piece I write. It's even more exhilarating seeing myself change and documenting how others have changed alongside me. It's still an escape, but for different reasons. It's not an escape out of my pain; it's an escape in which I can temporarily put daily life aside and delve into a fabricated world, opening a dimension of creativity.

I don't feel writing was ever a choice. I never contemplated trying it on to see if it fitted, I never had to think about starting writing. It simply occurred naturally and it reached a stage where I couldn't stop if I wanted to. I think there's something beautiful about that.

Writing to a degree is a selfish part of me: I write for myself. I don't write for anyone else. Others merely inspire my pieces. That's not to say I don't want others to read my work. I love it when others enjoy my work and feel moved by it, or even when they nit-pick every flaw. I feel art is a part of yourself that deserves to be shared if you're willing to do so.

:rose: If you had one writing dream you could live out, what would it be and why?

My only writing dream is to write a book containing a collection of my stories and poems. Just one book. I wouldn't aim to sell millions of copies and make a lot of money (although I wouldn't complain), I simply want to write a book which I can share with my friends and family; something in which an important aspect of who I am is in black and white. You can learn so much about a person through their art, and I'd love those close to me to truly see it.

:rose: Do you have any long term writing goals?

My main writing goal is to just write, write, write. I want to write as much as I can. I'll do it until my fingers bleed, then still keep going!

Alongside that, I aim to be a Creative Writing tutor at university level. I'd love to mentor others and surely learn more about myself and my own writing in the process. I'm studying Creative Writing full-time now, and I can definitely see myself working in this field for years to come. Perhaps literature is something I will take with me to the grave.

I have been writing plays recently and would like to keep working on it, perhaps even have a production made someday (I can dream).

More than anything, I simply want my writing to develop, to keep enjoying what I do and for others to enjoy what I create. I don't aim to be "better" than anyone else, only better than the writer I am now: The best I can be.

If I can write my book and do well with it, I will be happy but what's more important as stated above is writing a book I can simply share amongst loved ones.

:rose: What motivates you to share your writing on DeviantART?

I yearn to improve. I want my writing abilities to flourish and be the best they can be. I feel deviantART has done a lot to help me so far. For many of my pieces I have received fantastic, thoughtful feedback. I also enjoy giving feedback to other writers and it's nice for two writers to share their work with one another.

It's beneficial to share a piece of me with people who love art, too. Whether they are close friends or complete strangers, I like the openness of dA.

Also, I truly appreciate the community here. There are some amazing people on this site.

:rose: Which piece featured is your favorite and why?

Every single one of them is important to me. Choosing between my work is a bit like picking a favorite child: It's an impossible decision to make. However, I can tell you a little about them. While I love them equally, I care about each one in different ways. I guess this is totally cheating though:

"Not A Love Poem" marks the moment when I truly felt...At peace with my writing. It's not necessarily my most popular or my best work, but it represents an important part of my life as a writer. I feel it embraces my voice and even if it isn't perfect, I'm content with the execution.

"Disorderly, Not A Disorder" contains an important message about illness: It does not own us. No illness can define us. Whether we have depression, cancer or any other form of illness and regardless of whether it is mental or physical, we are our own person and no type of illness can ever change that. Expressing that was very special for me.

"I Have You Bookmarked" is about cherishing every moment you have with someone you love, regardless of how they feel about you or whatever conflict exists. It's about giving love. It's important to me because the theme is a request from a fellow lovely writer here that I admire very much and because it's a subject that has been so relevant in my life in the past. I'm also happy with the way it turned out. I always seek improvement, but I'm genuinely proud of it. It's positive to have real pride in your art.

"Taught To Love" is one of my oldest submissions and one I hold close to my heart. It's one of those stories in which I couldn't control the words being written, the words were controlling me. It's the first piece where I realized I was taking my writing in new directions. Like the story above, it's another piece that makes me feel proud.


bowie-loon123 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 July 10th at 7pm EST! (What time is this for me?) And as an extra incentive: for those of who offer bowie-loon123 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!




Yours,
LadyLincoln

:heart:
© 2011 - 2024 LadyLincoln
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TheLunaLily's avatar
TheLunaLily
I fear sounding cliche, but it mght be unavoidable at this point. I am very touched to see my work featured in your wonderful journal. Often you feature women who's work I am familiar with, who's featured work makes me want to become more familiar with them, or are on watch list. Some of these talented ladies I have the good fortune to call my friends, (such as :iconbeeinthebottle: and :iconoritpetra:). :heart: I have to thank :iconxlntwtch: , for reading my poetry, for suggesting it to be featured, and most of all for being an amazing woman and a good friend to me.
And LadyLincoln, thank you so much for featuring me in your Ladies of Lit article. (Sorry my comment is so long, but I've got alot of love to give today!) If I could you I would.
:iconbigheartplz: