Daily Literature Deviations for February 1st 2011
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Suggested by pullingcandy
Featured by the-photographicpoet
Ophiuchus Under The StairsIn an apartment building two streets over, passing a can of coffee in between them, were two people. It was hours after midnight and they were in the kitchen.
She was busy doodling on the corners of a white legal pad.
Page after page of trying to get the contours of a solar system just right.
Caffeine-drenched, 2AM sketches waiting to be set in motion.
Flip book processing plant.
A party was going on in the apartment next door. Wine glasses clinked and sounded vaguely like ice cubes cracking.
Was it too early for breakfast?
Pluto won't fit.
Still a planet at least on the page.
The can of caffeine and adrenaline exchanged hands. Sticky fingers brought it up to artificially-flavored lips.
He was sitting on the counter,
near the kitchen sink,
adjusting the radio,
and getting Nothing on every station.
Static mixed with the cracking of eggs; static was the fizzle of the frying pan.
No interruptions, not enough night left.
She missed Mom and he m
Ophiuchus Under The Stairs by kakashiplushie
The narrative stance of the piece is
so ambiguous, flippant and exceptionally done.
The format and the manipulation of the text really
adds texture and verisimilitude to this piece.
Suggested by apple-dark
Featured by: EmmaSloane
Transmission tower boy.I cling, a fog-cloud water droplet,
to your transmission tower presence;
electrified by proximity.
Convinced that you stretch up
to pierce the atmospheric heavens,
I am blinded by a simple trick of position.
Unaware that my cloud just hangs low,
that above my sky is more sky, I worship you:
seeming pinnacle of all worldly existence.
So beguiled I linger on long after warming winds
carry off those once close to me;
live only for your cool smiles of arched metal
and your watertight heart of insulatory ceramic.
I cannot comprehend that I might be better loved
by the honest soil of a farmer's field
or by the cracked lips of a parched child.
Instead I endure your static shocks and
stay until your steel sun-warms too much,
dries me out. Stay until all that's left is the
acidic residue of evaporated memories.
Yet still I cling, a chalk-white oval stain,
to your transmission tower presence;
electrocuted by proximity.
"Transmission tower boy." by OritPetra
The suggester notes that this piece captures
something "which has proven more and more elusive to me
the more I chase after it"-- the description of a relationships
in which the adored is elevated to godly status.
Featured by KneelingGlory
triptych, one by zebrazebrazebra
The author cleverly interpreted a visual prompt
for this piece. Using beautiful ryhme and impeccable
flow, she orates the abstract scene as though to
a blind person. It left me wordless.
Suggested by: MysticalAngel101
Featured by: Kitri-du-Lac
Moonlit NocturneThere was blood on my hands when I played the piano for you that day.
It was the same street piano on the corner of the park that we used to play in, outracing the butterflies that gathered around the roses that grew there. We used to pretend we could fly like them, dancing from petal to petal, free from the world's cruelties. So happy. So naive.
A skid of a wheel had changed all that.
That day, your butterfly wings had been torn out of their sockets. They joined a long list that had been stuffed into jars over the centuries, to be ogled over by Death, the sadistic collector who never failed when it was our turn to submit. You were captured too early, too soon, but there was nothing I could do. I was on the piano, playing your nocturne, when you crossed the busy road. Blood sprayed, horns screamed and I turned to see you flung over a windscreen, unmoving.
There was a funeral, of course. There were tears, but none slid down my face that day.
I saved it for the piano.
You should have see
Moonlit Nocturne" by julietcaesar
This suggester of this lovely short story said
'I just love this piece', praising the way the music
and the 'palpable emotion' come together
to create a 'beautiful concept'.
featured by: choirsoftheheavens
Train Under WaterBrother,
I'm writing to tell you I'm dropping out of college; I haven't told anyone. I'm twitching, Michael. The hunger came back a few weeks ago, and I'm not sure it ever left. Regardless, it's crying now, and I need to go. I need to keep moving on. I'm leaving for Chicago tomorrow. My train takes off in the afternoon, and when I get there, I'll leave again. I want to go somewhere new, Michael.
I want to go somewhere I have never seen before.
Now, I know you have to be worried, but don't, Brother. Don't you be afraid. I'll write to you wherever I go. I won't leave a return address, please don't try to follow me. You can't, Michael, you're too smart. Your place is here among these people; and mine is out there. You're meant for your books; I'm meant for my trees. I want to roar from the woods with a pen mightier than He
Train Under Water by zmorgason
A story whose quiet yet powerful plot is matched
only by its beautiful word choice. For anyone who has
ever wished to escape from their troubles, and whoever
had the guts to actually act on that wish.
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Prepared by: KneelingGlory