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Do you like reading? Do you like writing? Then this group is for you! We offer contests, prompts, articles and a whole lot of literature experience absolutely booming out the wazoo! Be sure to check out the rules before submitting! :heart:

:bulletred: There are no limitations on joining. Anybody is allowed to join and membership join requests are automatically accepted.

:bulletblue: We also accept comics and poetry in digital art format. However, we would prefer if you did not submit creative writing in journal format. (Unless it is a writing guide, which in that case it's perfectly fine.)

:bulletpurple: If you have a mature tag, it goes into the “Mature-ONLY" folder.

:bulletblack: Chapters or series: "Chaptered works." Single works of prose: "Prose."

:bulletgreen: If your work is denied, it's probably because it was submitted to the wrong folder.

**For the love of all things holy, if you don't know where it goes, don't be that person who randomly submits it to the fanfiction folder. What you submitted the deviation as corresponds with our folders!!**

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Group Info

Writing-Rampage is a group that allows you to participate in contests, discover unseen lit-artists, participate in prompts, features and a whole bundle of fun!
Founded 6 Years ago
Feb 14, 2010


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 Welcome to The Grooviest Lit in Town, where some of deviantART's very own writers are featured for their all radical, all gas, and all hangin' works and projects. From prose and poetry, to the depths of novels, soliloquies and articles - it's all here! So hang loose, get jazzed, and keep on being right outta sight. Love



1.enjoyable and excellent.


we, poetsconundrums are our connotation.
weaving wild and wondrous words,
we clothe memories in conscious-membrane.
our "children" [words] will never freeze [fade];
this world is finite, but
its people prize a naked soul.
as we cannibalize our innermost
feelings and sensations,
we grind ourselves down
to bite-sized paraphrases,
and feed them to the world.
we write ourselves away.
Lycanthropy  Lycanthropy
Tommorow is full moon
I don't know myself anymore
something has changed in me
making me the most wicked
Lycanthropy,I'm a killing machine
nothing can be seen
come and make me dust
nothing is as what it was,lycanthropy
It is so weird,I am fear
I am a monster,I feel exhausted
something has changed in me
making me the most wicked
Lycanthropy,I'm a killing machine
nothing can be seen
come and make me dust
nothing is as what it was,lycanthropy
This terrible thing,it raises within
I need to escape,this is my fate
it fades away...
Lycanthropy,I'm a killing machine
nothing can be seen
come and make me dust
nothing is as what it was,lycanthropy
Le parfum de la Lune(English version below)
Des étoiles filantes naissent, vivent,
À travers ce ciel chargé de plomb,
Sombre abîme des cieux, bas et lourd.
À la manière d'un paysage champêtre
Les bombardiers volent, gazouillent
Et les bombes tombent du funeste prunier.
Dans la toile de ces mygales casquées,
Des lucioles retenues par leurs pattes vindicatives.
La nuit leur est plus douloureuse que l'immolation,
Plus longue que le solstice d'hiver.
Les fleurs se fanent à jamais ; sur le corps se gravent
Des balafres à vous en faire frémir le pire des tortionnaires ;
La rosée sera tâchée de perles de sang. 
Ces astres éphémères sont nés, ont vécu, 
Puis se taisent à jamais.
Devenues poussière
Ces fillettes déjà oubliées,
Elles n'ont plus que le parfum de la Lune
Pour s'imaginer à quoi aurait pu ressembler la vie.
Fragrance of the Moon

Shooting stars are
The Old Forest TrailI walk a lonely forest trail
Dappled sunlight dancing
Across overgrown paths
Twittering birdcalls 
Insect song
Scraps of blue sky above
Loamy scent of nature
Soothes my weary soul
Branches rustle from the breeze
Playing softly with my hair
Warm smell of summer air
Was nectar to starving souls
My yearning spirit 
Longs to be
Forever part of this hidden world
As I step out of the forest trail
I leave a piece of me behind
HerI wanted to know
the girl in your old photos
full of smiles
and positivity.
Now your photos
are all black and white
and your body shrivels
into nothing.
I spent
far too much time
reaching out to you
getting the cold shoulder
wanting nothing but
the satisfaction
of making you happy.
I thought I needed you.
But now I know
I never should’ve pitied you.
Your wounds are not
inflicted by society.
Your scars were not cut
by horrible people
but by a blade in your own hand.
90. triangleI spent my entire lifetime
staring at the ceiling in
the dark, last night –
a year to every flip of the
minute invisible behind the
black screen of my phone, learning
what it meant to be divine, eternal,
what it meant to be the ethanol
running the machine of meaning
in a house of nihilistic design.
The heavens had sympathy;
it started to rain
at 3:15 in the morning.
At the time I was first
introduced to the world they
told me that I would find
dreams, yet not when, or where –
but there is no sleep
for gods –
Galloping Windwarm wind and daylight
after the long dark winter
I hear her hoofbeats
barn doors closed against the chill
she is galloping toward spring
Empty PodsOne-thirty in the morning, the tree roots
in my chest. It burrows through throat
and belly, vessel and nerve, feeding on chips of starlight,
tendrils of hope and a dream’s afterglow.
When it punctures my eyes, I give in—
the tree knows it’s fated to wither,
blacken and collapse, consumed again
by its own hollow core.
Two-thirty in the morning, the lump in my throat
knots, germinates and sprouts, blooming
by dawn. I work my mouth around a nothing-word,
a no-one-word, a syllable that crumbles
to powder the moment it’s spoken,
only to germinate again.
At three, I wake, and notice:
what a garden I’ve made of these.
My vast no-one’s-glory, my secret field
of nothing-reaped, my empty pods strewn
about this body, secreting the aroma of a lie
told twenty-seven times—
What a garden of fruitless desires, decaying
at the roots of ripening hours.
Hellothe freedom I desire
exists only in parables
             & fairytales
and this world is all too palpable
for me



FearlessYou have masqueraded as a mouse long enough
The Lion rises, burning
Across your Rubicon
Claim it all
Carve your name into your dreams, triumphant
Sign me with your teethmarks, I yield
You have won me with your courage
Let me be your victory feast
Ring of FireWhere Fire and Earth meet
We are molten, tectonic
Dancing the interface, frisson subsonic
My solid foundation, floor of the ocean
Your underlying perpetual motion
Fluid dynamic, abyssal plummet
Twine, combine to fulminant summit
Convergent, we build
Transforming, we change
My coastal tsunami
Your mountain range
Together we are megalithic, volcanic
Irresistible force, magnetic, galvanic.

MetamorphosisI have been blinded to the future
Yoked, as I am, to the past.
The boxes of mementos mori
Weigh me down with the taste of dust
The stale scent of incompletion.
The smiles I wore in those years
Were left breathless and blue
Stillborn epitaphs inked upon
The backs of photographs
And keepsakes no longer meaningful
To the guttering ghost I have become,
Haunting my own shuttered life
Hunting for refuge in dark corners
From anamnesis.
Today, November’s candles
Smoke in the waning sun
But I shall feed tomorrow’s Midwinter bonfire
With yesterday’s pain and paper
Today's fallen leaves
Glowing butterflies against the cold and darkness
To light my way onward.
The TravelerShe blew in on the last day of summer, arriving just as the wind began, clutching an artist’s portfolio and a hatbox. There was wonder and wisdom in her bright blue eyes, softened by time and crow’s-feet, and a perfect maple leaf the color of flame was caught in her unruly red hair… her perfume hinted of woodsmoke and oak tannins and the spice of faraway, foreign ports. I helped her carry her hatbox from the train station, and when she smiled at me, I knew everything was about to change.
We shared a cab to the little seaside town where we were both staying, there on the cusp of the world; it had long been one of my favorite places, my secret getaway. When life became too stagnant, the city sweltering in summer’s re-radiated heat, I spent a few days on the shore, staring out across the limitless horizon and dreaming of shanghaied sailors and full-bellied canvas tugging the great ships to the Orient, groaning hulls full of timber from forests that once seemed inex


How far do you have to go in the afterlife to simply sit for a nice, quiet cup of tea? 
Our hero's not having any luck with that, no thanks to a growing entourage of "helpful" 
characters, who lead him to Grand Central Station, it's doors to different worlds, and, 
eventually, to the Shrine of the Book of cheats.

It's a family-friendly comedy in the flavour of Douglas Adams' "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy". 

Tune in and support the show!


If you would like to be featured, or know a rad piece of art that you love, send it my way! I'm always
open to suggestions for anything that I do on deviantART and I would love to hear back from all of you.

Happy writing,


Skin by SimplySilent

Literary Justification: What Gives a Story Identity?

The Discussion:

If you were to bring up a list of your favourite examples of good storytelling, there has to be something about it which makes it unique. There is always something that gives a distinct feel or dignity to a piece. A lot of analysing in literature comes from wanting to delve into the secrets on how words can be woven into the character of a single piece of art. 

    What Gives a Story Identity?

    How does a story gain character? How does a story separate itself in the mind as its own beast? When you yourself are writing, what concerns do you have for the personality of your works?

The Response: 

Manifesto of the tired novelist with a day jobI'm tired of poets
and their
pretentious sadness
and their
"only a 'sensitive' man has the
'inspiration' to create".

As if you need 'inspiration' to write
words upon a page
and as though
without some degree of actionless pathos
one cannot be <<poetic>>
enough or indeed
move others
with words.
It speaks rather of
lack of
rather than any great literary genius
What is <<talent>> ?
What is talent without the appliance of
hard work
a hearty demeanor?
StrawberriesIt rained yesterday.
It rained and it washed all the mud down our street.
I went in the garden, my shoes got all wet.
Darn summer showers that smell of soaked earth.
I went in the garden, I set down my fruit basket,
And started to dig.
Until I found strawberries, crushed by the foul phlegm of sand grains and
Dead leaves.
My hands still felt cold when I washed them with hot, steamy water
From under the tap. I closed it, and ran
Ran down the porous cement stairs that stung my bare feet,
To the beat of a popular tune our neighbor Jerry played,
To my friend's house.
My friend used to stick strawberries to the tips of her fingers and
Eat them off, licking her lips with vigor.
I knocked on the door twice and waited, strawberry basket in hand.
My hand wouldn't reach the doorbell those years,
Even standing on tiptoes.
When minutes passed and I heard nothing but the roar of an airplane's rotor,
I knew just where she would be.
Pushing my head between iron bars

Creepy-Crawl.When it rains, the snail comes.
And he tells unto me
all his gastropedal tales
from moss and rotted leaves.
He speaks of insect friendships
and also enemies.
“Beware,” he says “the centipede
and other vicious bugs
Beware” he says “Our cousins
Beware the shell-less slugs.”
“Be kind.” he says “And please leave
no salt on the kitchen floor
and, oh, would you please remove
those pellets from near the door.”
“My helix friend,” I say to him “Your words are truly wise.
A way for us to live in peace
I'm sure we can devise.
You, the noblest of bugs, who can neither bite nor sting.
I do declare your shell to be
the palace of a crawling king.”
When it's dark, the spider comes
and whispers in my ear.
How she, the arachnid garden queen
is hardly a thing to fear.
“Let me live,” she says “within your house's darkened halls
and silver tapestries I'll spin
to hang on every wall.”
She says “
My England.I am no nationalist. I defend no ideology of solipsist words.
I believe in no man, whom by virtue of birth,
should demand privilege. Or by colour of skin, name of God or type of creed,
should have sway held over him.
I believe in an idea.
An idea called England.
My England has no borders. It has no capital. No limitations or boundaries.
My England knows not men by face or by name, but by integrity. By means and by deed.
My England welcomes those who have had injustice thrust upon them.
From all corners of the Earth, where-ever a voice calls out in need,
My England will answer.
My England speaks a hundred languages and worships both a thousand Gods and no God at all.
My England has countless sons and daughters.
My brothers and sisters.
My England forges its foundations not in war, but in the cessation of war.
The veins of my England flow not with gold or oil or money,
but with the freedom of true and equal commerce.
The power of the people, placed in the hands of the people.
My England

Names are important.
There's a truth hidden in a name, and the adept can uncover this clue to the true nature of things. This was known to the young traveller, who now traded the right side of the mountain path for the left, where she thought the wind and the flying snow to be less intense. It had seemed an attractive route on the map, but the name of this Flensing Pass had been a forewarning to this night's hardship: its high altitude and north-western trajectory, straight as the blade of a knife, gave wind, snow, sleet and ice free reign. The orcs of the region believed that the Pass was where the god Bahgtru had accidentally dropped the axehead he had been forging, and the bare, steep rock-face on both sides certainly endorsed this impression, more so because this night, each crack and furrow had been clogged and glazed over by the flying ice and snow.
The young traveller knew she would not be running into any orcs tonight: her destination was already too close-by for that, and even
Chapter 1: Bad Publicity
Hulda liked being in this part of the temple – the High Priestess' apartments were a tasteful sanctuary of ornate grey oaken paneling and lush carpets from the corner of each separate room to the next.
Recently, some dolt had trodden these with dirty boots, she noticed as she placed her books on the round table in the little study that served as an antechamber to the salon. Doing so, she accidentally knocked the inkwell over, and a tin vase as she jumped to try to keep the stuff from dripping on the carpet by cupping it in her hand. Fussing and turning, she tried to mop up the ink with a wad of her robes, praying to Selûne it was oak apple gall and not real iron gall ink.
She never got the iron gall stain out of her previous robes...
-”Hulda!” the voice of the High Priestess came from the adjacent room. “Is that you?”
Hulda nearly knocked the inkwell over a second time.
-”Yes Lady Meldrys! I've brought the books you requested,” she

Happy writing,


Skin by SimplySilent
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BenDrownedKitten Featured By Owner Jan 16, 2016  Student Writer
Hey guys, I have literature commissions open if you're interested ^^…
wei-en Featured By Owner Dec 4, 2015
The poetry folder is full :)
Naktarra Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2015   Writer
Thank you for telling me; this has been resolved. :)
BeBraveSoul Featured By Owner Nov 4, 2015
Thank you for letting me join! :)
xMcClurgx Featured By Owner Edited Oct 29, 2015  Student Writer
Man, I really miss being the Co-Founder here. Sure had some good times. Naktarra, How have you been?
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