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(April) THE GROOVIEST LIT IN TOWN: VOLUME THIRTEEN

Journal Entry: Mon Apr 13, 2015, 1:00 AM


    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:

THE GROOVIEST LIT IN TOWN: VOLUME THIRTEEN



GROOVIN' LIT...


NaPo #05She’ll Be Mine
5-4-15
In the dark of the night just before dawn her evil awakes.
It stretches sharpened fingers
Before closing them in a snappyhandedfist.
It opens sharp beaks and sighs out her name
With breath so putrid. It makes her crymummy,
Crydaddy,
Crygod.
She hears him hissing about her:
Never good enough...never
Wanted...never
Noticed.
Rise, minions, rise and show her
The life she leads
Leads to death...
And we welcome her with open snappyhandedfists.
In the dark of the night her evil has found her.
In the dark of the night just before dawn.
She hears him hissing about her:
Stupid...too stupid...far too stupid.
And just before dawn, in the darkness,
She crumbles and cries and gives up life to die.
Internet is a Wonderful DiseaseI should be doing my homework. SwampI. Hate. Swamps.
And I swear I'm not joking. There's few places in the world I will not go, few places that when someone tells me there's something interesting there it takes more than that to get me to check it out. Swamps are one of them. I don't like the deep, murky waters where anything could be lurking. I don't like the scent of decay, of dead things and mosses and rotting plants.
So why in the world am I in a place called The Clouded Labyrinth? Because someone here needs my help. I have a lot of friends from my days in training within the guild, and of course one of them had to write me and ask if I could help them explore the swamp. Because of the nature of the land it hasn't been explored all that well, but of course Hayden wants to make an updated map on the one that's over a hundred years old. Of course he wants to know every last lay of this place, the pathways through it, the creatures that live within. We know there's merfolk and some swamp elves, but that's about it.
I th
killing art...
Writing, drawing... It's these activities, that give life and shape to thoughts.
They form a tear, a drop of blood, from the depth of a heart.
You can't tell a scar not to bleed, you can't stop tears when they come.
You can't tell a wound not to hurt, when it was just made.
Art to an artist is lifeblood and tears.
It hurts. It gives life and death.
It gives love. It gives pleasure so deep and fulfilling. It may give shivers, a physical pain, to cope with the pleasure of it.
Artists have a way of understanding, that most lack.
They have that inner lense. They crave the feeling, of creativity.
With that inner lense, they split up whatever truth they see, to soak up the different shades of the white light, the normal human sees.
They wish to give a face, a shape to the rays of light, that meets their greedy eyes.
They want to show what they know and see.
Want to be judged for more than just the numbers that paint their scholar pages. They want to be seen through the same lense, they see t
This big coatOne day i'm walkin down this train line
with the wind blowing a chill up this back of mine
wrappin itself round my ears with a moan and whine 
leavin me wishin that maybe i had a glass of red wine
thinking maybe that would be more than just fine
warm my soul better than a fire in this wood of pine
Big rain drops are fallin down so free
coating everythin as far as my beady eye can see
this coat is way too big i shout and plea
maybe baby it's meant to hold more than little old me
From one plank to another i step to and fro
dancin like a sozzled, drunk, happy as hell dingo
on shinin wood as slippy as a big wet hippo
hoping that i will never slip to bang my big toe
dreamin of you hiding in a bright yellow poncho
knowin us together would set this whole wide world aglow
Big rain drops still fallin down so free
coating everythin a
One last cup of tea.It was a Tuesday like any other Tuesday. It was cold and gray outside, Chris and Dylan were at school and Nolan stood in the kitchen, staring at the round kitchen table. There really was nothing special about it. There were salt an pepper shakers, a few napkins and a book, but in the middle stood the two things that held Nolan's attention. Two cups, one cylindrical and black and one a soft green with a wider top than bottom.
They had done that every day, washing them and then putting the cups on the table for the next day so that whomever of them got up first would make sure there was coffee or tea ready for the other. It was almost always Alex who got up first, almost always Alex who made the first cup of coffee.
But not since last month.
Nolan swallowed heavily and looked at the dust at the bottom of the cup. He wasn't sure how long he had been standing in the same spot, staring at the cup but the light in the room had changed. Nothing in particular made him do it but suddenly Nolan
keelhauledkill this track we got a
fucked up beat going down --
this hard hurt, soft pain
damn bird with a lost name
i spent years in a hospital
replaced my bones with new gospel
my anatomy is diabolical
my devilry is theological
my herd, my pride
my pride is heard
my heart is stunned
and struck
and surged
my mouth is tripped
my death is ripped
eyes rolled back in rhythm, in time
my limbs will fall
unspecified
cyanus diadem (#2)cornflower mood with the confidence
to cope with fair weather
featherweight hues of happiness.
harlequin shades of the same face,
it's all blue when it's fresh
or when it's a storm-torn
sea shell with remnants
of sky pigments 
powdering its curves.
Pourquoi   Pour mieu comprendre
   Où je me suis trompée,
   Une question se forme. Est-ce que mon texte est à
   Réécrire?
   Quoi d'autre est-ce que
voUs
   Oserez
    Imposer?
arthritic condensation held in elbow crookscontractions have lent their voice to muscular aches
and i am lost,
aimlessly side-stepping through the heart
of a poor man's winter solstice.
my stomach is home to the grey earl,
his warmth extending far enough to provide
basic functionality to concave lungs;
every breath taken is a marathon run in reverse (and
speaking of marathons,
i've never run one with my eyes open--
blind-folded and cautious,
i've spent my entirety tripping over my own feet).
i have always thought that pine trees look best
beneath seasonal white cloaks and that i,
small as i have always been,
look better beneath their wide arms,
my skin flashing white in filtered light;
there are places upon me that ache for ink,
for the slow pierce of a sterilized needle-- they alone arc
from my flesh in prisms of blue,
enlightening the sky with my being.
cold-centred since birth,
perhaps it is fitting that my life is to be lived
chasing snow drifts and condensation.
CatatoniaRavenwing,
don’t apologize
for the charcoal in
your wings.
I knew - I knew -
at some point you
would jump from the nest
to test yourself.
I don’t ask that you
nuzzle twigs forever;
I ask you don’t close your
eyes with gravity.
This world
will bleed
survivors
through
blind
free-
fall.
Why are They so Tall?            Japan has a tree in its name. It is a tiny country with towering things, California-sized but not flat and sand-silken. The forests are hollow, they green through the winter, Fuji is solid and snows in the summer, and buildings climb hills liked tile-horned goats born to defy acrophobia. Nihon is “Japan” in Japanese. The letters of its name mean sun origin, or sun tree. Ni () and hon (), sun and tree; the tiny, hollowly forested country stretching for the singular star in Earth’s solar system, like its mountain goat buildings, has no fear of heights. Humans fly and swim horizons just to see the tallest things in Japan.
 
Kinkaku-ji, the Temple of Gold (金閣寺)
            Kinkaku-ji sits alone and golden-sk


THE GROOVIEST LIT CONTINUES...










QUOTE OF THE MONTH:


"I think that some books are more successful than others to certain readers. People who read my books for the humor, they're going to love one book. People who read my books for the mystery, they might not like that book quite as much." - Janet Evanovich

GOT LITERATURE?


I'm a prose admin for LitRecognition, so be sure to check out the rules of submission here if you know a piece of prose that needs some exposure!

Happy writing,

NAKTARRA



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:iconlittleredbigwolf:
LittleRedBigWolf Featured By Owner Apr 10, 2015  New member Hobbyist Digital Artist
Hey all, I have a story called half past nothing that I would love for People to read!
Half Past Nothing!
Reply
:iconsocial-toast:
Social-Toast Featured By Owner Mar 2, 2015  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Question.

Bullet; Purple If you have a mature tag, it goes into the “Mature-ONLY" folder.

Bullet; Black Chapter works go into “chapter prose.” Singles go into “prose.”

My first submission falls under both of these categories. It has a mature tag (moderate) for violence/gore and is only a single chapter out of many more chapters to come (they won't all need mature tags though). So does this singular chapter go into the "Mature-ONLY" folder, while the others go into the "Chapter Prose" folder, and any other future chapters with a mature tag go into the "Mature-Only" folder; or is there something I'm missing, and need to be told?
Reply
:iconnaktarra:
Naktarra Featured By Owner Mar 2, 2015   Writer
If it is a story, poem or whatever it is, as long as it has a mature filter it goes into the mature folder. Yeah, it's a weird way of organising the pieces, but for now I think it's best to stick it into the mature folder. There may be changes this year, but well see. :shrug:

:heart: :heart:
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:iconhockeymask:
hockeymask Featured By Owner Jan 8, 2015
Thanks for letting me join!
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