Literature DD Roundup- May 2013

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Greetings everyone!

We're almost halfway through 2013!

Another bumper month for DDs, with a few extra than normal thrown in! We will always throw in extra if we have the volume of suggestions to help!

Below are the featured DDs for May 2013. Please check them out, there may be a few you've missed! Make sure you share the love and comment where you can too!

:iconbeccajs:
Features by BeccaJS



ButterBreakfast was real oatmeal
Every morning in Taos,
Served at the kitchen table
By the window.  Ravens
In the courtyard.
You always put a dab of butter
In my bowl, covered it
So it would melt completely.
                    for S.  
PoetreeNOTE: The poem should have the shape of a tree, but the new dA layeout messed it up. Please follow the link in the author's comments to see it in its intended form. Thank you!
                                         In darkness sweet I dream I sleep; my fate to wait till time is ripe
                                      A tender leaf curled in the seed,               an idea that would be freed
                                  I dream of branches: branches tall;
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Mature Content

DadI turned out like my spot-skinned father
and I would twist and turn the dry tall-grass threads
that I found on the prairie into braids of hair
like he taught me,
and I would feed the horses blocks of salt
before they took flight in the bleak twilight of the plains.
I lived in a world of dry winds and cul-de-sacs
and reached the thinking end of things
before I knew I had no-where to go,
and I first fell in love with a girl
who’s handle is lost to that wind
but her brown eyes are sketched to my soul for eternity.
When I left home he stood on the old porch
while the wind chimes sprung chords
across the flat land like a funeral bell
as my mother walked me to the car,
and as I drove across the cattle grid for that final time
he was already inside the house and gone to me
as a shape and as an image.
He died of a stroke 6 months later
and she told me in her soft sweet voice
how much he had loved me and his pride of me
but it was always in her voice
and I had to use my imagination

Naughty Irish SpiritsPoor Molly Deegan was so very tired. She had done her nightly rituals in a stupor and when her fiery red head hit the pillow, she was gone into dreamland without a stray thought.
Her corgi's barks jolted Molly back to wakefulness and this, she couldn't ignore. With a muttered oath, she flung the blankets back and swung her feet over the side of the bed. She cringed at the cold air and grabbed a throw from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around her self. A blue streak of curses trailed along behind her as she stomped into the kitchen to investigate.
She was momentarily shaken out of her foul mood when she saw that the kitchen was undisturbed. She stood in sleepy dumbness until she realized that there was a glow from the garage window.
Walking outside, Molly saw that the garage door was ajar and peering inside, she saw Aedan heaving the last of the broken shards of glass into the recycling bin, the partial logo on the shard revealing that it was one of her college bar glasses.
"Aedan!
:thumb363826144: The Stick PeopleIn a town called Rushing Water, there lived a woodcarver with no face.
When we were small, my brothers and I, Daddy would sometimes take us to visit her. We would sit there at her kitchen table, amazed, as this woman with no eyes – and indeed no nose or mouth – would pour out our tea without spilling a drop.
I was frightened of her because she looked so strange, so grotesque. All the other days of my life, I encountered people with faces – square faces, oval faces, faces round and smiling like the moon with slanted eyes or big dark ones or little beady bird eyes. Snub noses, Romans or long, thin, birdlike ones like mine. Yet here was a woman with none of that or any of the faculties that come with those organs.
As a little girl, I dreaded our visits to the faceless woodcarver. But now that I've grown up I miss most all the memories of my childhood, even the somewhat unpleasant ones, so I sometimes let them wander through my mind even when they aren't invited. So I remember the woodcarv
Chocolate ChaosRandom pastry movement: brownie in motion.

:thumb326885446: Every Angel Deserves a Child"I can't feel the unfurling of my wings, Daddy."
I was not her father. I had entered her life when she was two years old, and she called me Daddy since she never knew her real father.  Her mother's death two years ago made me the sole, living parent of an thirteen year-old, and I never felt like I was the right person for the job.
"What do you mean, Asrin?"
"Mom always said that when puberty started I would be the swan that emerged from the ugly duckling. She said I would be able to fly gracefully towards my dreams.  But, I don't feel it."
As much of a woman as she was becoming, she was still a child. I wanted to answer her question, but I really had a hard time discussing her blossoming womanhood in the middle of a laundromat.  Her pretty eyes were pleading with me, but I told her we'd talk later.
Janet had told Asrin a lot of things before she succumbed to the cancer. The last week or so of Janet's life were morphine-induced fantasy, I think.
Janet and I had met during
A Reason to LiveIf only she had the guts to actually do it, to just leap among the cold waves and sink in death among the fish.  She breathed in the smell and taste of saltwater, and water sprays hit her face, neck, and chest.  She shivered slightly in the breeze from the waves, but she wasn’t really bothered by the chill.  What weighed on her mind was something much deeper than the weather. 
A pang of apprehension penetrated her heart as she envisioned her body being plunged into the water and weighted down by the strong waves.  She thought about what it would be like to gulp in mouthful after mouthful of water, choking and never feeling any relief, but she didn’t think the pain could be any worse than what she was already dealing with. 
“Aimée!”  The young woman moved her arms in circular motions as she tried to keep her balance.  Her mother’s call startled her, and for a brief moment she thought God might be

ControlThe feeling came over Bill when he was out checking his trap line in the dying light of a winter evening. Eyes on the back of his head. He knew the wary scrutiny of the deer and the hungry yet restrained gaze of the wolf. This didn’t feel like either. It didn’t belong to this place any more than he did. He would have preferred the wolf.
He turned around, shook his gun at the reddening sky, and cupped his other hand to his mouth. “I know you’re out there! This is private property! I don’t wanna use this, but you’ll leave me no choice if I catch you hanging around here!”
A soft rustle from somewhere deep enough that the trees obscured his vision. He waited until he felt he was alone again, then trudged through the snow to see what he could learn about the intruder. There were prints made by boots similar to his, though smaller. The thought that he outweighed whoever it was offered little comfort.
He cast one last disgusted look in the direction t
:thumb359629539: Love Letters On the TrainDear Stranger,
I'm leaving this post-it tucked in the side of the train-seat. If you're reading this, you've seen it. I've seen you sit here every few Monday mornings, sometimes tapping a bent, unlit cigarette against your thigh, sipping from your tea (who brings a tea cup onto a train anyway?); sometimes staring at the rain outside, or reading your well-worn, beaten copy of Jane Eyre (I hate that you fold the corners down - it's bibliophilic abuse. I wish the book would papercut you to defend itself a little, but I digress).
You seemed so sad this Monday morning past. Please smile again. I love it when your eyes catch the light of something I'm unaware of, something silently and intimately your own; a secret from the world that makes everything all the more meaningful to you.
- The Passenger
Dear Passenger,
I'm not in the habit of reading post-its from strangers. I found a love-letter hidden in a newspaper once, that the author forgot or was too afraid to send. It made me sad to think




:iconneurotype-on-discord:
Features by neurotype-on-discord




BryceHe always stands very close to people when he speaks to them, staring with those huge golden eyes and leaning in ever so slightly, as if he is craving their touch and the feel of their breath and their hands more than anything. This is the first thing you notice when you meet him, the closeness. You ache, for a reason you don't know, to bridge the gap. To touch him. Your fingers twitch towards him but you keep your hands beside you.
And then you hear him speak, and everything else seems loud and bright and harsh compared to the gentleness of him. His lips are chapped and his big galaxy earrings glitter and his hair stands straight up and his freckles are like kisses, and you think he will sound like all the others and then he speaks; he speaks and something shifts inside you and a little storm begins to crackle and swell inside your chest and suddenly you love him more than anything.
And then he finishes asking you the time, and you tell him, and he walks on.
:thumb367549543: How to Sleep and Never Wake UpThe year they discovered my best friend, twenty years old and silent under the heap of her wrecked car, I learned one can sleep forever and never wake up.
That year, her sister, only seventeen, ate magic mushrooms and lost her mind and her brother, fourteen, started running and stopped eating and I didn't eat magic mushrooms but lost my mind anyway as everyone watched my skin, too white to be real, disintegrate before their eyes.
That year I flew to Colorado to see an urn surrounded by pointe shoes. It reminded me more of a wastebasket than the last I would see of the girl who shared my soul. Her sister ran naked through the street a few days later after ingesting a certain fungus at her school's homecoming dance. Most say it was the drugs. Maybe, I said. But I knew exactly what it was. Her brother started walking with his feet turned out, a remnant of his ballerina sister instilled in him. I ripped the flesh from my arms, hoping to find her somewhere underneath my fingernails until a
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Against Nature"Mommy!" The call shatters the peace I fumble to carry like a bell in an abandoned cathedral.  I can't stop myself from looking for the little girl whose voice pierces my heart.
I can't find her.  The park is full of children - too full.  Shrieks bleed with laughter, buried under the heavy pounding near my temples. Children push against me, protesting as I rush by. Heads raise as nearby adults track me with wary eyes. They see a frantic parent searching for her child, but no amount of sympathy inspires them to do more. The sharp tang of fear burns; no matter how quick I am or how many times I search the colorful maze of jungle gyms, I can't find her.  
It's faster to work around the crowd, but now trees block my path.  Shadows peek from behind towering trunks, giggling at my misfortune.  It's hard to remember if the voice was panicked when she called for me or if I had imagined it.  Am I wrong?
A familiar sound stops me.  The giggles I hear belon
:thumb358997326: lemonwe walk down the streets
of a city named after the last thousand years.
a breeze floats by
and for a moment your hair lifts off your shoulder.
the way it doesn't touch you,
i want to touch you.
there are traces of lemon in your light,
a vague sense of mint on your fingertips.
the way honey tastes
drifts inside your shirt.
entering the city
walking calmly while the light falls
is like listening to your voice,
like waiting at the bell by the river
for a clamoring to do justice
to the patterns on the water.
the way the bells never end
i want to brush my hand against yours.
the way you drop lemon into your water
i want to live.

:thumb368880469: :thumb348415719: Helicase    Helio and I were always sitting on the stairs, chatting about the lamina and occasionally making snide remarks about ribosomes. There wasn't much for us to do. Our job was to simply be, and let the RNA polymerase scribble down the letters on our foreheads when they came around every once in a while. Helio was a G, I was a C. It wasn't exactly fulfilling, I suppose. There wasn't much to be filled. So to pass the time, we talked.
    "You ever wonder?" Helio asked.
    "About what?"
    "About...well...what's out there." Helio and I were rooted to the stairs, quite happily, but it was awkward to move in. He kind of twisted in the general direction of the closest pore. "Out in the cytoplasm."
    "I haven't," I admitted. "What's there to wonder about?"
    "That's exactly the thing. I have no idea." Helio sighed, gazing into the distance. "Somehow it feels like we pl
Mollie's Ribbons     I grew up in a small town just a few dozen miles from the closest water source—a slowly shrinking aquifer that squatted underneath the seat of Thompson County, our neighborly border. Fortunately, we hadn't yet been quite as devastated by our annual droughts as those in Oklahoma and Texas. Rumors would occasionally drift in with a tumbleweed traveler about how bad the deep South had dried up into nothing but an old dusty lake bed, but these flashes of news were too few and too far between to be counted on as up to date or even true.
     Once, I heard one of my distant cousins, a boy by the name of Harold, was said to have been caught up in a barn somewhere in Oklahoma during a storm where only the dirt blows—the dust and dirt block out the sun and the air until you get blown away with it. Apparently, poor old Harold had been caught up in that barn for so long (five days according to old Miss Harris) he eventually just smo

JoyceHaving kicked the man in the balls and relieved him of his belongings, Joyce wasn't quite sure what to do next. She could run, but he might come after her the next minute. If she tied him up here, in the middle of nowhere, he might be eaten by wolves; or starve to death. Besides, she didn't have any rope. She could kill him... perhaps. The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth.
'What am I to do with you?' she sighed.
'Well,' he groaned while giving her a look that sent shivers down her spine, 'You can run, but that won't help you, cause I will find you! So you just wait another few minutes until I get back up again - and I mean úp- and then, I'll do you like there's no tomorrow! Which, by the way, for you there won't be!'
Well, that sure narrows down my options, she figured as she bent over and closed her trembling fingers around a good, fist-sized rock...
It wasn't much later when the road took her out of the forest and into the farmland. When she spotted the little v
:thumb371566279: GrandfatherLancaster Pennsylvania.
July 3rd, 1978.
Five pm.
Eighty-two degrees outside.
Driving sixty eight mph down Millersville road
past miles of cornfields
And everything is silent.
Except the faint scream of wind escaping through the cracked driver side window
and the dull thud of tire treading on the newly paved road.
He is
trying to understand,
while trying not to think,
while thinking too much,
while being silent.
And suddenly its
March of 1968
And Calley is calling
“kill them all dead”.
And he sees his daughter,
her Agent Orange colored curls
clinging to her face like napalm sticks to melting bodies;
her eyes burning brighter than Hanoi and Haiphong on December 18th, 1972.
He begins to cry
because its still
July 3rd, 1978,
Five pm, and
eighty-two degrees outside.
But in his mind it will always be March of 1968
or December of 1972,
because for him the war is still being fought;
monks and Morrison still burning;
Saigon is still screaming
like it was on April 30, 1975,
but every
Letter to a former loverI wrote you letters
of these hollow woods,
perhaps your tongue was tied
or planing out your teeth with supple motion
licking forth a better smile
a brighter future, at least
you never answered or gave word
that you had seen the fog riding
from beneath the trees on grey stallions
or that the woods themselves were
leaning out and giving way and
turning grey, mist breeding
hollow spines on brittle branches.




:iconnichrysalis:
Features by Nichrysalis



Open SeaI
was a
fawn caught in
headlights;
you
were
 a 
boulder on the
shoreline - a ghost in my dreams that's still breathing
                                                               W                                                           G
                                                                    I                        a                     &
Slutit implodes on the walls of your skull
and slides, sickly
off your tongue
like the body of a slug.
when it hits the floor
it is not quiet,
not heavy
nor dull
but sharp as a slap
and totters out of
the room
suddenly,
they are disgusting
and you are ill.
there is no more room
for regret,
washed away by the slime
coming out of your pores.
the fault is yours
l'appel du videlet me intensify the outside for you
to nullify the agony in your head
drink up, shoot up, snort it all
and i'll watch eagerly as your
pupils contract, veins constrict
as it sets in, and then
the concentration, oversaturation
of color and sensation, the distortion
of time and of your entire reality-
isn't this better than dreaming?
on stimulants, everything is wonderful
the bricks are beautiful until you hit them
the bruises are gorgeous until you remember the pain
and even then,
they're just colors blooming upon your skin
pause for a moment of clarity
retreat from waking reverie and rediscover
the mess you're in- an instant
almost-sober and everything rushes
back like a bullet train and
you just want to take that last-
stop
don't think like that
ignore the impulse
enjoy this while it lasts
squeeze every drop of euphoria from this
you'll be back down soon enough
you don't need to jump
sniffle a little now
didn't realize your nose was leaking
substance trying to escape
your voracious ap
we won't bury you      The last time we saw Taylor alive, it was behind Melrose Diner on Snyder Avenue at two in the morning.  It was a little bit after the rain had stopped; the clouds had disappeared and the moon was already covered by the quiet buildings that lined up on Main Street. There were still puddles on the tarmac, and the streetlights still had some raindrops trailing down their sides. The smell of wet rust and burnt florescence still lingered in the air - the normal fragrance of a night in Philadelphia, after a night of too much to drink and too few fucks to give.
      We had all of our band gear already packed up in the back of Dave's shitty van, except for Taylor's old Ibanez guitar, which he kept in the gig bag that was strapped around his back. He liked to keep it with him after a particularly good show; it was a good-luck charm to him, and we needed all the luck we could get.
      The

:thumb347091350: :thumb365551120: the first day of springyou are new in the way flowers are new:
brilliant green, soft purple,
the good smell of rain and soil.
let the miserable winter wind
chase its own tail for a while;
there’s something beautifulwonderfulmine
at the end of a sunlit driveway.
:thumb348002905:

dear mia,the other night
i caught you with fingers so far
down your throat
they choked you from the inside
out.
your closed fists
formed snail shell spirals
at your sides
and the tears in your eyes
told the story you wouldn’t tell
and i already knew.
“i’m fine,”
you said,
not trusting me enough
to say the truth.
baby girl,
you’re beautiful,
but sometimes
you tear me apart.
.your cough.The density wavered in jagged movements that drew out towards the borders of an organic, rectilinear shape.  Our fingers, the chosen ones, met at their respective ends, where fingerprint would crosshatch fingerprint, confusing identity in between.  We were children miming the motions of adults, quoting their language, their words, using their clothing as capes to fly into our own sense of adulthood, maturity.  We ran across time as if it were borrowed, inaccessible to reality, parallel systems that interacted only in surreal moments of passion, disillusionment.  
I stacked the plates in the kitchen.  She made a soft, coughing sound from the bedroom.  She was looking through her bag, maybe locating her cellphone or her pajamas.  Each plate I stacked seemed to create its own unique sound, composing notes on the lines of sheet music that ran across the air conditioner vents, the crooked, venetian blinds.  The
In Which Middle School is HellI can still remember with perfect clarity the day in eighth grade when a boy walked up to me at my locker and said, “Hey cutie.” I was sweaty, having just come from gym class, and I was only at my locker to buy some time before I had to go to math class where the teacher hated me and the numbers didn’t make any sense. But there was a boy standing next to me and he called me cute and I had no idea what to say. As it turned out I didn’t have to say anything because the girl he was with just laughed, a cut off cackle into the oversized purse she was fishing through. I turned back to my locker, not saying a word because I was out of my depth and trying to ignore the world.  
Either ignorant to the fact that I was still within earshot or apathetic about the whole situation, the girl pressed the boy for answers. “Why would you say that?”
“Fat chicks need love too.”
The words were mocking, insincere, and they burned through my body like a p
Need A Heart? Take Mine...I was slowly beginning to surface through the heavy clouds of anesthesia when my eyelids were wrenched open and a bright light penetrated through the haze moving rapidly from eye to eye. 
"Steven... Steeeeven... Hellloooo... Yoohoo, Steven wake up. Can you hear me Stephen?" The voice couldn't have been anyone besides my cardiologist, an annoying middle aged man that probably still lived with his mother. I found it hard to believe that he passed medical school and it was even harder for me to believe that he was the best in the country. 
I attempted blinking and was successful after Dr. Nahill realized I was awake and also perfectly capable of performing that task by myself. 
"Oh good, you're awake. It would have been a shame if you died and that ol' ticker you've got didn't get a chance to work. Well, it's a new ticker but you get the point. Your irreversible, end-stage biventricular failure has been reversed." Dr. Nahill barked out an awkward laugh that stopped once he realized I wasn

Lilac II - tankaa star-glow  
connects their breaths -
a river path.  
     in lilac light  
     she forgets to sigh.
Remover
She decided a young woman like her had no business being imperfect. Impurities had to be expelled from her life, no matter the cost. An universal remover promised to be her savior. It lived up to its commercials, doing away with the stains that disgraced her floor and some of the walls.
Would domestic hygiene free her from being flawed? Doubtful. This product guaranteed to exterminate any kind of filth. Could it go beyond the material things? She rubbed the substance on her forehead, and conjured as many negative thoughts as possible. They were recalled, only to vanish from memory a second after.
Satisfied? Not quite. Even the good recollections had portions of impurity here and there. She wouldn't allow that, and began rubbing with furious abandon. There could not be a single mistake, not a lone wound, every hint of imperfection had to disappear ...
Her neighbor would make a visit later. No one answered the door.
What Am I?     Lingering in that photo...
In that simple shot
I look, and I see a woman.
I am not a woman.
I have never worked for a lifestyle,
given birth for an allowance
I have never truly loved a man.
I am not a woman.
I do not have the means to
     Transport
myself
to wake, feel the calling..(oh, it calls, but I do not answer)
and move, move, move
until I reach a place of
astonishing beauty.
I am not a woman.
Sometimes, I still take the
     Weight
of my childhood and
place it on shoulders of
self-doubt.
and
Sometimes, I remember the way
lifting builds me up.
But I am not a woman.
     Lingering in that photo...
A wisdom of some sort
has trickled into my features
I see glimpses of it now.
In that momentary shot,
I look, and see memories there
In the darkness of my eyes.
In the taming of my smile.
In the strain stretched over my brow.
I am not a child.
And I am not a woman.

Mature Content


Do you know the taste of the universe?One day, when you’re five years old and made out of fractured sunlight and mirror shards, you sit down on the bench of the MAX train. You’re dressed in your winter coat and boots that are too big and one of your parents has pulled your hat too close over your ears.
You’re sitting next to your mother, and on the other side is a man that smells like loneliness, something that you’ll later know as cigarettes and alcohol and homelessness. He’s crying quietly into the top of his jacket and you’re scared to look because you’ve never seen an adult cry.
The train ride goes on for five minutes, which is a long time to you, and eventually you sneak a look at the crying man who smells like Portland and loneliness, and he sees you. He leans down until you can see the red lines in his eyes and he whispers to you.
“Do you know the taste of the universe?”
And you look up at him with your little-girl eyes and shake your head because you can’t

Mature Content

Giving Again."So…" I look over at her, but she's looking up.
I see the corner of her mouth lift and she says:
"I love your family."
I let out a relieved sigh and send up a mental 'thank god'.
"Well that's good," I smile too," sorry if they seem a bit-off, though."
She laughs in a sudden burst,
her neck and upper back arching off the cement walkway,
her shoulders shaking.
"They're fine trust me. I'll visit again,"
She glances at me from the corner of her eye "…If I can?"
"Of course." I grin at her, but I don't know if she sees since she's still looking at the stars.
"So, when do I get to meet your parents?"
"You're not!" She nearly yells.
It sends me into a sitting position away from her, offended- hurt.
She turns to her side to face me.
"Oh, no, Luke" She grabs my fingers and tugs until I'm lying beside her again, "that came out wrong."
She scoots closer and keeps hold of my hand.
She bites her lip and breathes deeply;
it comes out, harsh and too short.
"You can't meet my mother," She's l
amphitrite IIif my lip will still be split when the austral summer starts,
and, all wrapped in rising sun, we're coccooning,
if we're throwing all the good things into a bucket of riverness
(and lawn flowers),
will we want to wake up?
I know I'll want to pour
my slice of eternity into a bottle of coconut essence,
make my foreverafter sweet and tropical,
and if your hands are balsam I can
carve my song in stone,
and I will never die.
But don't you ask yourself
why paper boats always sink, in the end?
I don't think I care.
I think they just sail off to a land without horizon
deep in the underwater of the bathtub.
You'll know when, and
you'll hear me sing a sea shanty, maybe.
I want to take my ship until the end of the river.
I want to see the spring pouring down blossom offerings
into the ritual water, I want
our coast of muck and destruction to be aflame with
mussel flowers.
I'm a shellfish and my fingernails are painted green,
I'm silent-all-these-years and fallen,
I'm wondering where my watercolor

Personal Demons“Do you even know what a demon is?”
Archibald Feeney had never considered himself an overly religious man, but he attended church every now and then, and read the gospel if there wasn’t anything good on the telly, and even said his prayers if there was a lull in his bedtime preparations. It was, however, still a bit of a shock to him when he ran face to face with his religion.
He had popped into the local pub for a fish and chips, having been late from work and disinterested in cooking. There might even be a pint in it for him, though he tried not to succumb to those urges too regularly. No more so than the vicar anyway, who stopped in every Saturday, as regular as clockwork.
It was while Feeney was nursing his lager and waiting for his meal that something came in and sat beside him. It was tall and lithe, with reddish skin that was only beginning to show signs of peeling from a mild burn. It wore no clothes, but its bottom half was clearly quite goat-like. The brown




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