Features by HugQueen

Watch the World BurnWhen I was young, I was told I’d live to see the world end. I believed it to be true when the earth was split wide and began swallowing everything in its path before closing over it, sealing us in the soil.
When I was free, I assumed that was that; my world had ended, replaced by one of men who feared the unknown and an unknown that feared man.
I did not expect to find people and a place I could call home, didn’t ever imagine how attached I would become, how much I’d grow to love this odd little group of creatures. So when I watch a girl who I have thought of as a sister begin to spiral towards the dark as did my true sister, I can feel the earth begin to quake once more.
And I cannot stop it. blackberriesit meant little to her, she told me as much
but I loved her more each time.
on the rug, her bed
mine.
and before in the summer
I drove almost two hours at four in the morning
to watch the sun rise over a bench
with her.
that empty highway
splashed in glass.
her neighborhood
with yellow reeds all tidy in rows.
blackberries by her door.
it would be something like a pilgrimage,
if Mecca involved having sex in your car.
or terribly planned picnics
(who knew spiders loved sandwiches!)
laughing shirtless in the grass.
I find her red hair in my shower
the echoes of her sleep have sewn themselves
into the depths of my mattress.
if I don't move the blankets much
I can see the outline of her body
limp and loving and heavy with light. ''Punchlines'' -- Chapter 1       "I'm here to take you to The Other Side," the chicken said, cocking its head toward the thin strip of road.
       The man looked around himself, then blankly ahead at the road for a moment.  It looked newly paved, and mirages shimmered in the desert heat just above the hot blacktop of the highway, which disappeared out of sight in both directions.  To either side of it, the parched clay ground baked in the sun like a kiln. There was nothing all around, but this terracotta desert that peeled and cracked like a bad sunburn, and the road. And the chicken.
       "Is this a joke?" the man said.
       "No," said the chicken, "This is the punchline."
       The chicken turned and started walking across the road.  The man saw little choice but to follow.  He didn't bother questioning its motives.
       It crossed slowly, all awkward bony legs an Summer's PassingThe first flush of death
burns brightly beyond the pale
a vibrant shudder
followed by soft hues of grey
winter lingers on the verge. CathieSalt-and-pepper hair contrasts sharply with the crisp, starched pillow;
bone-thin arms resemble bed rails--
tears in my eyes, the morphine drip in your vein.
My inner rage refutes your calm acceptance.
You ask if we are waiting for you to die:  no.
We are waiting for a miracle,
we are waiting for you to heal--
We are waiting for something that will not happen.
We are stretching for something that is out of reach.
We are holding onto our obsolete hopes, the small fragments of our lives
so closely, we cannot see the bigger picture
of eternity.
In a paradox, God is calling you clearly,
but we can't seem to hear His voice--
only the silence ringing in our ears
as the monitor stops
your breathing ceases
your face un-creases--
and, for the first time in years,
you run Home.

Mature Content

between the pineswhen i ask who you are,
stray ghost,
do not tell me you are
mentally exhausted.
it shows through
death, anywhere—
the dismal cold
is muted by lustrously
sharp water
in folds of the moor,
thrashing
is it applause?
a shudder curds
with sudden sleet,
low pulse
of winter.
how raw trees snap
into full body
apparitions is slow,
beyond motion
and heavy like
abandoned bodies.
this cold ranges
from mountain forests
to stranded hangings,
giving frailty when it can't
be refused.
between these pines i lie
taunting
you torpidly walk into me. Scar TissueI don’t know what I hated more: myself, or the fact that my crying woke him up. It couldn’t be later than two in the morning, I had woken up from another nightmare and I found myself huddled in the same spot I always went to in times like these: the bathtub.
It was a bad habit I got myself into since childhood, but the coldness of the tub gave me a comfort most things couldn’t. I had been good about keeping my pain hidden from the rest of the world, but by night it came crawling back to me in the form of dreams and flashes of guilt.
The tears would come before I could stop them and I always found myself in this tub. He never knew, and I never told him. What was the point? I’m a girl stuck in reverse who can’t seem to let go of yesterday and take in the joys of tomorrow. My whole life was like a damaged tape, repeating itself when it shouldn’t and having a hard time moving forward. I always could repress my sobs, and I wondered if I was louder than I <da:thumb id="481781030"/> The Art of Poetry KillingWhen I find an old poem
Packaged beneath an allegory
Or taped beside a piece of prose,
Warm and balmy and still swollen
Ripe with the undisturbed
Words
Within their plastic wrapper,
I untangle its cellophane bindings
To find it's too old
And too stale for the proper use of a poem
So I pluck out its
Strings
Like some guts of a creature
And sew them
Onto other dust poems
Like the mismatched socks
Of a child
Just like murder is an art,
I still walk away with ink on my hands. words to say to your reflectioni am a collection of dust and stars,
blue luster in a sea of inky void.
i am a tongue licking lips, clicking against teeth,
shaping sounds that matter.
i am the lightning that explodes in purple storm clouds,
four miles of haphazard beauty
on a lonely night.
i am the sea in autumn, still holding the warmth of a summer of sunlight,
though the air outside is cold
by now.
i am the snow at 6am.
i have not been touched, not stepped on. my surface is smooth as glass.
i am the snow at 6pm.
i am still beautiful.
i am the sound of rain just before sunrise
on a sunday morning.
i am the swirl of cream in a coffee,
blossoming and unfolding like a galaxy.
i am the smell of lavender
after a storm.
i am breathing.

Features by inknalcohol

Show It, Don't Tell ItOne of the many things that make me hit the back button, put down the short story, or return the book to the library is "telling". The minute the author decides to state that "X was angry" or "Y was bored", I get angry or I get bored. I've seen this issue for years--heck, I used to have this issue myself--in both fanfiction and original fiction alike, and while many reviewers/commenters often call out the author on it, they never really explain the concept. Thus, the poor beleaguered newbie gets hate over something he/she may not fully grasp.
After years of seeing this unfold, I've decided to make a writing resource about it for :iconWriters-and-Editors:, in hopes that maybe, just maybe, it'll help somebody, somewhere.


What is "Telling"?
"Telling" occurs when a writer either:
a.) states a character's emotions;
b.) summarizes the setting; or
c.) summarizes situations that can be inferred or would have more impa <da:thumb id="434428255"/> JoyMay life whisper
joy through your veins
before lidding your eyes. <da:thumb id="481173830"/> The HusbandI took a nap, and when I woke up, the dog that had been sleeping on my chest had become a husband.
I said, “Get off, you’re heavy.”
And while he sheepishly slunk to the floor, I asked him what he thought he was doing, being a husband when all I wanted was a dog. He kissed my foot and said that I needed a husband.
This is something that many have tried to tell me in the past, and I was not up for hearing about it. Not on a Saturday afternoon, when I had to fully wake up from my nap, make some coffee, and putz around for a few hours before meeting Sammie for drinks down at Calico’s, so we could watch all the cowboys wearing their finest, most colorful shirts and tightest jeans. Which last part seemed like something to which a husband might take offense.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not a wife, so you’d better change back now.”
“Could you be a wife for a little bit? Try it out?” His eyes were still brown and far too reminiscent of a

Mature Content

<da:thumb id="497151322"/> Birth MarkedGrandpa used to tell stories
about the night I was born,
said a lost sparrow with cockeyed feathers
hopped across my right shoulder
and left its mark.
Shifting the sheaf of hair
mom refused to cut short
and craning my neck,
I could just see the cluster
of sharp-edged W's etched like tattoos 
across the scalloped scoop of my bones.
In summer heat waves,
I learned to weave my dark tangles into braids
and let the claw strokes breathe,
the thin straps of feather-print shirts
pushed out of the way.
On those days,
Grandpa claimed I could lift my arms, wing-like,
and fly myself into something new.
Today,
though the sun is high
and summer nears again,
Grandpa is gone
and I am weighted by dark moods
and black mascara.
Standing at his graveside,
I tell him stories about the parts of him I miss
and the parts of me I hate
but cannot change;
the parts I was born into.
A phantom breeze clutches
the fresh bob of my wayward hair
and for a moment,
I can feel his work-calloused fingers
br Lady FeyDearest lady fey
I thought of you today
Fool I was to think that
I could bear to see you smile
Truthfully, I think I knew
That heaven would
not spare me you
So I watch you drift away
Farther every day
I think I always knew that starstuff
Could not dwel with clay
And there's nothing I can do
But pray to God that I'll pull through
And wonder why he took our hope, our light,
How could he take you?
But you weren't made to wonder why
You were made to grace the sky
The facets of your brilliant soul weren't made for mortal fears
So I shake
Alone
In tears
Fearful of the coming years
Of how I'll find my way
Without your light to guide me
Oh angel lady fey
And you are the month of May
The heavens brightest purist ray
But dearest lady fey,
How can you leave me here?
So I pray and cry and pray
Dear Lord, let us be okay
But how, God, how can we be
When you've taken lady fey? To Holden Caulfield and my grandfatheron the day you were buried
it was warm and sunny out
and little children played all day-
how ironic.
it’s also ironic how they handed
out flowers to your bones
beneath dirt
when they couldn’t do it
with your bones
intact with pumping blood
and warm skin
the cycle of life turning to death
is being thrown at your face,
petals counting off
the days you wasted drunk
with regret wishing
you kissed her
or how you should never
have given away yourself so easily
so fast
or how you were never
suppose to die
alone
with your heart
tiring itself out from
giving you all the time
you will never get back
the stem bent
toward you
like a big i told you so
with its empty head
and shriveled body
flowers.
why flowers?
could’ve been that bottle full of
paper stars you made when
you were seven
or that Little Shirley Beans
record you smashed
the first morning you had
a hangover-
some souvenir to turn
into your own personal
landmark
other than your coffin
because flowers are
a grave for the 64. FrostA clear, cold enrapture she entwines like lace
dancing in swiftly with movements so fine,
delicate and smooth she exudes feminine grace
barely lifting a finger,trailing intricate design
A creating beauty with a crystalline face
her stunning eyes freeze with just a gaze
caressing all objects in a winter's embrace
they soon shatter the touch, ending her phase. Winter IntimacyAluminum-wrapped snowflakes
pinning down my frostbit tongue -
a numbing needle sensation
expressed in sapphire blue...
...it renders you speechless too,
seeing how each star shape falls.
Finding solace on my very mouth,
a kiss well overdue. AlmostIt's in the way you meet my eyes,
And the rest of the world melts away.
Right before we almost poured our hearts out.
It's in the way the smirk formed over your face
During the last dip
In that dance that we almost got to finish.
The way our hands touched for just one instant
Where times' hands finally rested
As I almost couldn't tell if it was deliberate or accidental.
The way you wouldn't look me in the eye
Your hand ready for flight on the doorknob
And I almost asked you to stay.
Unsure looks with unanswered questions
Silence like the smoke after a battle
Because you almost thought I had changed.
Looking at the moon like it has the answers
Wishing on airplanes for a restart when it's not an option
Because I almost thought I had changed.
Admiration from afar only works for so long
When your heart bleeds from the inside
And you rip it open claiming it was almost out of love.
With you, ignorance is bliss
And I regrettably can't bl

Features by SingingFlames

Oblivion SongsOblivion Songs
I’ve arranged all of my memories
Into photos and put them
Upon my wall, then
Sat down in my great armchair
And gazed upon them all.
My memories aren’t chronological, but instead linked by scraps of string, reaching across the yellowing wallpaper like the silk strands of a spider’s web. I’m older now, and I do this mainly as a way to waste my time as I sit in this great house that I worked my whole life for, now empty, and think of what could have been altered.
In my study, books sit as my audience, thousands of them. Three thousand four hundred and sixty two. I counted them last week. A fire cackles behind me, illuminating the dim room. And I place my legs, pale and feeble, upon an ottoman and stroke my long-since-grayed beard with one hand as the other hangs lifelessly over the side of the chair. The cat walks to and fro, chasing shadows in the dark. My eyes scan the wall of photos, searching for something that resonates and brings back the sweet The Only Thing Missing Is You7:55 PM
you would have liked today. we went upstate like we used to, to the woods. i know it's been a while since you've seen the trees but they're as pretty as ever. they're just starting to fall. i wish you could have been there.
7:59 PM
i always wait for a reply from you, haha. then i remember
8:00 PM
anyway, we took a walk down to this lake too. there were rope swings hanging from a tree nearby and we froze our asses off swinging for nearly twenty minutes. i swear it felt like we were floating.
8:02 PM
hell, it was everything you used to love
11:23 PM
it's funny, on the ride home i was practically falling asleep, but now i can't even shut my eyes
11:26 PM
it's just... it's not fair
11:26 PM
whenever i skipped a rock i remembered the first time i taught you how, and how excited you got. every time i said i was cold i remembered the way you would call me a baby, but give me your hat anyway. we even walked on the same paths we used to take, and everything is the same. the trees are st VerbatimOn June seventeenth at 2:33 PM, Jacob Fantana falls off the roof and hits his head. This is the approximate time that Cory later gives him. It is a particularly nasty fall: The house they had been roofing is two stories, built on a hill. At the hospital, the doctors wreathe thick gauze around Jake's head and subject him to a series of tests. Rachel cries as Dr. Dubey explains that x-ray computed tomography has revealed a mild skull fracture and bruising on his inferior frontal gyrus. Jake stares without interest at the diagrams and fiddles with his bandages. He attempts to console Rachel, but he is embarrassed, and worried about his insurance copay.
They keep him overnight for observation. As Rachel drives him home the next day, she repeatedly reaches over to touch Jake's hand on the armrest. He smiles politely and grasps her fingers in return. Through the window, he watches the bland streets of Sandusky pass by. The brakes on Rachel's Lumina whine quietly at every stoplight. Ja Not All Things Will FadeWith a sky that struggles to offer unpolluted clouds, streets rich in garbage-filled potholes, rivers with more diseases than water, and more car thieves than there are cars, no sound mind would remain in this town willingly. Out of the few compliments I've gotten, none were for my sanity, so no wonder I'm here. Among the bunch of senseless decisions I've forged a life with, what's another to the list? Anyone with the smarts Nature reserves for rocks would abandon this wasteland now...But back in the day, before factory owners jumped at the chance to screw it over? Still nothing to brag about, but it was decent enough. A quiet city to watch the days go by, to try and be happy within the imprisonment of everyday mediocrity.
Had she not been here, that is.
Routine made an art out of slaving townsfolk. She made an art out of giving Routine both middle fingers! Literal art at that, for no interaction with the outside world went ignored in the one of her own. Wherever she took a step, her c A Victim of CircumstanceWhen one is with friends and is asked, “Do you know any stories?” one usually has a particular tale prepared for such an occasion. This tale can act as an icebreaker, lead to good conversation, or simply garner a satisfied “Can you believe it?” reaction. This is one of those stories:
***
Paul Edwards, a man nearing his fortieth year, was still a bachelor. He was a barrister, and quite brilliant at his job. Flawless, even. In his entire career, he had not lost a single case. Impressive, no? Unfortunately, his unblemished record was to be tainted on the twenty-second of September, ninety-seven. Paul did not appear at the trial, an omission previously unheard of by his family and friends, because on the twenty-second of September, nineteen ninety-seven, at eight forty-seven in the morning, Paul Edwards was hit by a train.
So how did Mr Edwards QC come to such a quick, but nevertheless tragic end? He was not pushed or shoved or thrown or tripped. Instead, Mr Edwards <da:thumb id="495928039"/> Ode to the artistColours dance
Just out of reach
Of her grasping fingers,
Her lips tipped up
And her violet eyes
Glistening with wonder.
And today,
So many years later,
When her eyes have settled
And their colour dimmed,
When the curls in new hair
Have fallen flat,
Even now
Those colours dance
Just out of her reach.
She slashes at canvas
With wide brushes
And dripping paints,
Trying to capture
Those perfect blends,
Those perfect tones,
That perfect feeling.
Her works are masterpieces,
Acclaimed by all who see,
But not a single one
Is complete,
Merely abandoned
By the mother who cannot cherish
Imperfection.
And so she starts again
With new brushes
And brighter paints.
And she screams
Into her brushstrokes,
And cries
Into the glaze,
And laughs
With the easel,
Because that is what
Art
Is.
Not a blending of colours,
Not the recreation of a scene,
Not the likeness of a figure.
Art is
Pain and joy
Mixed together on the same palette.
Art is the reminiscence on a place
And the worship of a face.
Art is life
Bl <da:thumb id="500483684"/> <da:thumb id="501032686"/> <da:thumb id="492083654"/>

As always, an extra special thank you to all our wonderful suggesters this month:
NamelessShe, Carmalain7, copper9lives, hopeburnsblue, LiliWrites, blalock27, xlntwtch, SilverInkblot, Sabine62, failuresnirvana, CoconutFanatic, OfOneSoul, chromeantennae, TruthisTruth

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