dALinkSystem is a group dedicated towards increasing artists exposure by helping others and themselves through a simple and effective "Linking" system: Link another artist's submission in your artist's comment box. It helps everyone's exposure and finds undiscovered art.

Welcome to the inaugural issue of Lit Linked! This will be a monthly article featuring ten literature pieces that have "Linked" to another deviation [or deviations].

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To Build A Human
I wonder if I died last night.
I once wondered if I had died the night before.  And that's not even the strangest thought I had that fateful day.  But perhaps I should start from the beginning…
I had been thinking about the troubling philosophical issue regarding the hypothetical teleportation device that uses quantum entanglement to instantaneously transfer data, then uses that data to exactly replicate the individual in the new place and simultaneously destroy the original.  The new copy is like a twin with all the same memories of the original, right up to the event of the teleportation, creating a perfect illusion of transportation to everyone, including the replicant, who would have first person memory of the lifetime of the original and therefore believe himself to be the original.  The only party for whom this fax machine from hell fails is the original, who is stifled by nonexistence.
So how can one be certain of this tragic flaw without experiencing it fi linked to   A Dark Butterfly's WingsI arise from dream to the flap of dark butterfly wings. The room is unlit, gazed from across the window by a bleeding moon, silent soothsayer of prophecies scrawled in blood. August's airs wrap the room in stillness, damp and overbearing, and I can feel cold sweat crawling across my body. Something on the verge of my consciousness hints that this isn't the real reason behind the drops. The aroma of night offers me no rest, covering my every breath with moist earth, grass and above all - honeysuckle. It takes some moments, minutes, even after regaining my feet, to join the last fragments of my consciousness into a single coherence.
Then it hits me, the meaning of it spreads menacingly in front of my mind's eye, and I realize: She's here.
She slides soundlessly, out of my sight, onto the edge of my thoughts, finding her way to me through the darkness. Soon she'll be here, I know her, I know her like the back of my soul. I know it deep down inside, just as I know she casts no shado

linked to   A Picture of the SeaIt's the gaze of the June sun
assessing you,
your misted skin an ember hue-
a hand across your brow.
It's the breath of the warm air
when first light cotton slides;
it's the lap of the cold sea
against your toes.
You feel it higher than your knees and so
you let the next soft something go
from the place that the close heart knows;
it's entry gained by heat and sigh
till nothing's left to cast aside-
old skin for new, wet wings untried,
chrysalis and butterfly.

La PianistaI opened the heavy door to the empty auditorium. Had my life been different, I would have loved this room as I did my ramshackle of a bedroom; but I barely knew this room. All I knew is that every time I was here, I felt as if my could-have-been life fell around my ankles, and danced in front of my eyes so I could almost see it. That's all I knew.
Shutting the door, I moved silently towards the center of the room, the apex just below the stage where a solitary piano and its bench stood amongst echoes of theatre.
I sat at the piano's bench, knowing no one would disturb me here. My fingers, almost as if by their own accord, danced across the keys but did not tread; the silence was welcome and no call could break it.
I shifted my fingers to the first notes of the Song for Sienna: F and A on one octave, and F and C on the next one, remembering the times when I would play these very same notes many times a week. I did not press the keys.
Suddenly, memories ghosted over me and I saw that fin linked to The PianistA warm, lilting melody wafted through the nightclub, nimble fingers dancing over crisp black and white keys as the song of the grand piano drifted down from the stage, filtering between the irregularly spaced tables to fill every niche and recess of the dimly lit room. The lone figure in the spotlight moved gently with the music, her long chestnut hair billowing down her back in loose waves and her wine red dress fanning out around her knees as she sat on the worn leather stool. It was not a complex song she played, with no difficult notes or intricate rhythms, but there was something about it that was so enthralling, so entrancing, as if each sound touched you, clung to you, whispered to you.
As the tune swelled, as the notes danced, and as music came alive beneath her fingers, the pianist began to remember.
She met him at a cheap, backwater club on a cool autumn evening while playing yet another of those low paid unambitious jobs that she hated but needed to make ends meet. While

The Remembered NamelessAcross unmarked graves, bloody roses bloom. linked to

linked to

Mommys Under the BedIt has been so long since
I last heard your screaming echo through my tear ducts.
Sometimes, I curl up under my blanket
and sing about a place over the rainbow
where blue birds aren't shot out of the sky
and there's a piece of happiness for anyone
brave enough to ask.
I am terrified of you.
There, I said it.
Can I turn on the lights in my heart
and chase you out of my nightmares yet?
I'm not a kid anymore,
afraid of monsters under my bed,
but you're presence makes me feel small
and the confidence I've managed to dreg up
from the crusty bottoms of oil wells
crumbles like sea to sandcastles
in the face of your sarcastic smile.
My heart feels empty,
but I've never missed you.
I've always been a little disconnected.
And I know I have you to thank,
for the lack of pleasure and of pain
Mommy, mom, mother dearest,
it's one year later,
and your presence is still enough
to make my heart scream suicide. linked to Dear Mom,let me free,
let me fly.
break the chains from all
      that surrounds me.
let me go
let me be
my life is my own.
      that's how i want it to be.
let me out
let me flee
i want the beauty of freedom and
      no authority
i won't stay
nor will i be
a prisoner in this house
      of yours
so let me free
      and let me fly
i'll come back one day
i promise you...

Mature Content

linked to

Dear JohnDear John,
So have you got there yet? I still wish you hadn't gone, but the letters idea was sweet, only you have to remember to write back now. There's not so much to report from our end, unless you count Sally getting arrested again but then that's nothing new. I don't know what they'll give her this time, but I don't think she could actually fit any more community service into a week. Of course alongside all this I've been lumped with caring for Ian, and as much as I love him, I can only take so much of my darling nephew before it becomes too much. This morning he told me I looked fat in that dress you bought me before you went away, smiling the whole time. I just know Sally put him up to it; I'll have to ask her tomorrow.
Dad's drinking again, only a month out of hospital. I called him this morning and he was at wetherspoons for his morning pick me up. Apparently he only drinks a bottle of wine and a double vodka in a day. Only – that was his word for it. Sally was practically linked to

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I will be accepting suggestions for pieces to feature, but they must link to someone else's work as per dALinkSystem's submission guidelines. [It doesn't have to link to another literature deviation and they do not have to be a member of the group]. ♥

If you have any questions, concerns or comments regarding dALinkSystem, linking or this article please send me, HugQueen, a note!