As she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot
Synonyms, the Thesaurus, and You by ML-Larson, literature
Literature
Synonyms, the Thesaurus, and You
Every now and then, I see one of those lists going round, be it on Tumblr, shared on blogs, or whatever. You know, those lists; the ones that go on for eight miles listing ten synonyms for dozens of common words.
I hate those lists. In the wrong hands, they often do more harm than good. And in the right hands, they‘re just sort of useless.
There's one going around I do rather like, because it points out the idiocy of these lists. At the top, it says, 'instead of whispered, consider…' and lists off a whole bunch of words. One of those words is 'insinuated'. And the very first response to that list? 'Aye lil mama, let me i
The bus was late. In the four switches Ben had made so far, he had come to accept lateness as an unavoidable part of this mode of travel. The first three times, he had been irritated. Now, at a little after eleven at night, he really didn’t care. If the bus was at least running, he would be happy. Working air conditioning was a bonus. Timeliness was asking too much.
He wished he could call Mae again, even though he had just talked to her half an hour ago. It had been a little over two weeks since he had seen his fiancée, and hearing her voice helped ease his frustration. But it was late, and she had gone to bed. She would still ans
Dear Charlotte,
It's September 1st today. It's weird, isn't it? The way most kids associate the start of September with brand new backpacks, pencil shavings and the panicked beating of their hearts as they get on the bus, pretending all the while to be perfectly collected, not even a little nervous? I guess that's one thing this whole thing has given me to be grateful for. Dr. Spence says it would be a good idea for me to write a list every day of things I'm grateful for. You'd like him. He also told me I should try writing you a few letters telling you how I feel, even if I would never send them, and it's not like you'd open them even if I
Like a panther, I slink my two-hundred fifty pounds of taut, well-toned cellulose along the dark hallway. Even the slightest noise may rouse suspicion and lead to my untimely demise. My wife is, after all, a light sleeper. She was expecting me home from the bar hours ago, but I couldn't call her and tell her I'd be late; I left my cell phone at home. Of course, John's phone was dead, and the last time I saw a pay phone it was on display at a New York art museum. So all that's left for me is to spend 15 minutes creeping past dusty memories hanging on the wall towards my goal: the door.
BONG. BONG. BONG.
I nearly jump
Time Traveller's Engagement by Memnalar, literature
Literature
Time Traveller's Engagement
Exactly ten years from tomorrow, we'll be married here. My wife doesn't know that, of course. In a certain sense, neither do I.
It's a beautiful spot, now. Now meaning today, when the sunlight is still pure, and the sky is still blue. The ivy still climbs in green snakes up the side of her father's chateau, the pennants of the House of Renard are snapping gaily over the towers.
I hear a lilting laugh that even now sends my heart into my throat. Euryale Renard. She is only a girl today, no older than my little sister is in the days I left behind. Even at twelve, my Ury's curls catch the sun like molten amber, with a flower basket flung wide
The old woman next door played her depressing version of Happy Birthday to You on her piano again, and Lisa couldn’t study.
The music wasn’t loud, but it seeped through into her apartment with its slow pace and low notes and bothered her, even though it was ignorable and she was comfortable in good company.
“There she goes again with the sleepy music.” Mark placed his Calculus book on the coffee table, leant back into the couch, and yawned. “What’s this, the eighth time this year?”
“The first time,” Lisa said. “And how’s it sleepy music?”
“It’s making me d
How Not to Tell a Story by MakingFunOfStuff, literature
Literature
How Not to Tell a Story
After being on DeviantArt for a few years now, I've noticed patterns in people's stories. Patterns, that I can't say I've ever seen until I started using the internet. I believe that's because these kind of patterns are thoroughly unprofessional. The pattern in short is this:
Character = victim
Plot = bad things happening to said victim
Maybe this sounds harsh. It's not if you understand that is ALL there is to these stories. They take any character, hurl them into a tragedy and that's it.
Let's get this straight: We do not know your character well enough to care about them yet. No matter how bloody and gutty their injuries are, no matter
Choose Your Name by yoursingingsatellite, literature
Literature
Choose Your Name
“John Brant,” I whispered, and a dashing British gentleman appeared in my mind, arrogant and suave as the slim-fitting Italian suit he wore. He sounded classy, not overly pompous. But there was just something about him. He could be the cool confident charmer I was looking for. But he could just as well be a stiff stocky soldier with his pride shoved far up his ass.
“John Chase,” The name rolled smoothly off my tongue. Another man took form, both the same and different from the first. He was just as charming, perhaps a little lower in class with a bolder tongue. And was that a little mischief I saw in his eyes? Undoubt