ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
i.
Her pale sea-foam dress swirls around bone white knees, caught in an endless maelstrom. It is fashioned from the salted tears of a thousand forsaken sailors and beaded together with stolen pearls—taken from the darkness of the sea's deepest chasms and hidden, suffocating caverns—and seems to undulate with nothing less than the utterly formidable wrath of Poseidon himself.
She is as indisputably unfathomable as the ocean itself, with mottled blue lips, eyelashes laced with droplets of brine and damp hair that twists in limp rivulets down her back. When the curling wind brushes that seaweed hair to the side, it reveals that she is dotted from the very top with barnacles where there ought to be a spine.
ii.
Far away from the ragged shoreline, wounded by the ceaseless caress of the sea from every side, there stands a lonely wave-washed lighthouse that reaches into the sky and far across the ominous, writhing water. Once, it was a sentinel; a keeper of light shielding the land-dwelling world from its deep-sea counterparts. Even unspeakable beasts, the most terrible of guardians, that would take on writhing, slick-skinned forms and emerge from the ocean's rough, crevassed skin dared not pass.
Its lantern room now lies abandoned, lenses cracked and encrusted with the consequence of years of neglect; the clockwork mechanisms beneath long corroded, stricken stiff and useless by the cruel breath of the sea breeze. The lighthouse had been crumbling away into the sea brick-by-brick, forlorn and without any purpose until she gave it one. This is why she adores it so. They co-exist rather comfortably together, liquid and stone.
iii.
She had loved some of them, those sailors, even before she had lured them into her—especially those with the ocean overflowing inside their heart valves and pumping through arteries, infusing their bodies with coral and salt; rolling waves reflected within their wide, glassy eyes. They call her an angel while she draws them in with a song and pretty promises, unsuspecting of danger until it's far too late.
(She takes them for her own.)
iv.
There is no blood rushing through her veins, only the might of water breaking against the coast. She was born of the ocean, and to it she shall always belong. The lighthouse is her home, though those fearsome creatures of the deep welcome her to them as an old friend—the oldest. It is her duty to drape Dead Man's Fingers over rocks, and paint far-flung coral with all the colours of the early evening sky; creating a soft sundown display to stretch across the underwater horizon, mirroring that which hangs in the sky high above.
As she must coax life into her briny world, she must control it.
v.
For many, the last thing they ever see before the ocean rises above their eyelids and pulls them beneath, consuming them entirely, is that lighthouse. With every rush of the ebbing tide, the deep red of its white patterned exterior fades further, transforming it from a beacon and a bringer of light into a skeleton; a darkened and eerie omen.
It is a warning for the wise and an invitation to the reckless, the naïve, those who allow petty desires to cloud their better judgement. She smiles, a movement as fluid as ripples on a calming water's surface, and muses over the fact that, somehow, there are always so many to choose from.
vi.
Thick glass storm panes that once encircled the lantern room are no longer present and as she sits at the lighthouse's very top, wind begins to swirl around her body, brutal and cold in all of its ferocious might. She waits and watches for whomever the waves will bring as her next fleeting love. It has to be soon. Her hair billows around her head, almost dry, and she wets her cracking blue lips.
She can see a ship on the horizon.
Her pale sea-foam dress swirls around bone white knees, caught in an endless maelstrom. It is fashioned from the salted tears of a thousand forsaken sailors and beaded together with stolen pearls—taken from the darkness of the sea's deepest chasms and hidden, suffocating caverns—and seems to undulate with nothing less than the utterly formidable wrath of Poseidon himself.
She is as indisputably unfathomable as the ocean itself, with mottled blue lips, eyelashes laced with droplets of brine and damp hair that twists in limp rivulets down her back. When the curling wind brushes that seaweed hair to the side, it reveals that she is dotted from the very top with barnacles where there ought to be a spine.
ii.
Far away from the ragged shoreline, wounded by the ceaseless caress of the sea from every side, there stands a lonely wave-washed lighthouse that reaches into the sky and far across the ominous, writhing water. Once, it was a sentinel; a keeper of light shielding the land-dwelling world from its deep-sea counterparts. Even unspeakable beasts, the most terrible of guardians, that would take on writhing, slick-skinned forms and emerge from the ocean's rough, crevassed skin dared not pass.
Its lantern room now lies abandoned, lenses cracked and encrusted with the consequence of years of neglect; the clockwork mechanisms beneath long corroded, stricken stiff and useless by the cruel breath of the sea breeze. The lighthouse had been crumbling away into the sea brick-by-brick, forlorn and without any purpose until she gave it one. This is why she adores it so. They co-exist rather comfortably together, liquid and stone.
iii.
She had loved some of them, those sailors, even before she had lured them into her—especially those with the ocean overflowing inside their heart valves and pumping through arteries, infusing their bodies with coral and salt; rolling waves reflected within their wide, glassy eyes. They call her an angel while she draws them in with a song and pretty promises, unsuspecting of danger until it's far too late.
(She takes them for her own.)
iv.
There is no blood rushing through her veins, only the might of water breaking against the coast. She was born of the ocean, and to it she shall always belong. The lighthouse is her home, though those fearsome creatures of the deep welcome her to them as an old friend—the oldest. It is her duty to drape Dead Man's Fingers over rocks, and paint far-flung coral with all the colours of the early evening sky; creating a soft sundown display to stretch across the underwater horizon, mirroring that which hangs in the sky high above.
As she must coax life into her briny world, she must control it.
v.
For many, the last thing they ever see before the ocean rises above their eyelids and pulls them beneath, consuming them entirely, is that lighthouse. With every rush of the ebbing tide, the deep red of its white patterned exterior fades further, transforming it from a beacon and a bringer of light into a skeleton; a darkened and eerie omen.
It is a warning for the wise and an invitation to the reckless, the naïve, those who allow petty desires to cloud their better judgement. She smiles, a movement as fluid as ripples on a calming water's surface, and muses over the fact that, somehow, there are always so many to choose from.
vi.
Thick glass storm panes that once encircled the lantern room are no longer present and as she sits at the lighthouse's very top, wind begins to swirl around her body, brutal and cold in all of its ferocious might. She waits and watches for whomever the waves will bring as her next fleeting love. It has to be soon. Her hair billows around her head, almost dry, and she wets her cracking blue lips.
She can see a ship on the horizon.
Literature
postmarked:
Dear God:
Here is a picture of us conquering Rome.
That's me in the white hat, I know you
haven't seen me in about eight years
since that time you got mad and didn't listen
since that time that you showed me and my brothers
your back
I've aged and this smile you gave
me and my knees (for bowing) are
slinking toward the ground. Those
Literature
The Glass Jar
From the time I could remember, I'd been given this transparent glass jar. It is said that I've been using it since the day of my live birth. I'd been told to use its nowhere-to-be-seen contents not more not less than once a day.
I had always known I was adopted. My adoptive parents (who were more loving to me than anything) were very honest in admitting this to me. Since I had always pestered them about it, they also confessed that other than the glass jar, at the orphanage where they got me, they were given a rain-washed letter to read- this letter was supposedly written by my mother. Aside from her confession of a planned suici
Literature
Confluence
According to the old religion, a scribe
must bathe in natural running water
before she draws what is dictated to her,
because writing's just like cleaning a mirror,
she says, it's like rearranging stains
left on wholesome rivers. For three nights,
I drew geometric shapes in the margins;
I had been instructed to take notes on
the underside of snow, and how it colonized
the lithosphere, musically and without hurt.
It felt like a call, but it wasn't a calling.
The paper was made in Himalayan foothills
by a woman who had cleansed knots from fibrous bark
and dipped her bleached hands into boiling water.
I mangled the page into a cottage, then
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
The Ocean takes her prey,
(beware).
-
Edit:
A mildly reworked update for class. c:
-
Featured:
Here by =DailyLitDeviations
Here by `dreamsinstatic
Here by *imaginative-lioness
Here by =hazeltown
Thank you so much!
© 2012 - 2024 Concora
Comments43
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
I believe enough has been said about this piece. I'll just add my enjoyment.