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About Literature / Artist Community Volunteer StephanyFemale/United States Groups :iconcrliterature: CRLiterature
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Love DA Lit Loves You: Vol. 12

Tue May 26, 2015, 12:00 AM
Hello lovelies. Love DA Lit Loves you! Well, it would if it were a sentient being, in the meantime please accept my undying love. *Free Icon/Emote* Totoro ( Heart) 

I don't actually get a lot of notes / comments from people sending me news or contests, so when I do I'm super happy. Like. Super duper happy. Bear Emoji-05 (Excited) [V1] by Jerikuto And what better way to say thank you than feature those who support Love dA Lit [I will feature those that frequently comment and fave too]! Then I might surprise you and randomly feature some people just because I can or those who've sent me in DD suggestions. It's all about spreading the love! Heart

As always I welcome suggestions for news, events, projects, groups, or contests for Love dA Lit! ♥





Love DA Lit (and Stephany) Gives Lots of Hugs and a Big Thank You To...

:iconbark::iconkahunasniper::iconlovelyhufflepuff::iconjswebb::iconcrooked-clockwork:
:iconmadhat11d6::iconc-a-harland::iconvespera::iconthedizzydan::iconscheherazades:

SaxAnd suddenly the music stopped, save for one lonely sax; wailing through the darkness like a lost child, drifting in and out of the smoke. Drone. Whisper. Reeling drunkenly, bouncing off shadows. Just when everyone was entranced, beginning to dream, it happened. The sax broke out into an orgasmic series of notes, rough and real, cutting through the room like a mad blizzard of sound and motion. Fever. Frenzy. Fury. Then the rest of the band stepped back in and the spell was broken. The sax man receded and lit a cigarette.   Death Whispered A LullabyWhat's more to say about the sky that hasn't already been said a million-times over? It was a pleasant aquamarine blue, with a light accenting of clouds, spread out nice and evenly across the sky. The career master sergeant had been decked out flat on the dirty road, amongst a thick layer of rubble and brick, near the front of a large plaza structure. He had been stitched left to right, across the stomach, by an hidden medium machine-gun position.
It was so quiet that the ringing in his ears could just barely penetrate, but none of the sounds from the outside made it to his head. He didn't hear the gunfire or explosions. They weren't important to him anymore. He didn't hear another of his fellow soldiers' as he fired a rocket into the nest of enemy aggressors that had cut him down; the building's lobby exploded and collapsed in on itself from across the street. He heard nothing of it.
All the man heard and saw was a story being told by a tall, hooded figure with a scythe. It was his to

Flowers Hunger Games by LovelyHufflePuff Villanelle Composed by the Man Lost at SeaWhere am I today? Where are you?
I ask myself this every solitary day
I awake into lightness. I love you,
Maribelle, I say, to the calm blue,
gulping as it rocks the stern. Today,
where I am is where the ares of you
are not. What I wouldn't give to argue
with you, Maribelle, over melon parfait,
but daily I rise in stale light. Love, you
are the reason I continue to pursue
the ends of this endless flat slate—
wherever I am today—to find you
where I left you, in my mind, as renewed
and mine as then, when we parted, okay
with away. O, lightness of love. You,
Maribelle, are the reason for this view
and reason enough to want to stay
where I am today, where you
let me wake, into light. I love you.

FlyWith the covers pulled over my head, my room darker than the city night and the steady breath of my sister in the bed below me, I would put my hands together, close my eyes, and pray. I’m not sure who I was praying to. I knew God then, I suppose. Each night asking for the same thing. Never receiving, but I’d never stop. I couldn’t sleep unless I prayed. Dear Lord, I thank you for such a nice day. Please let us all have good dreams tonight and a good day tomorrow. And please, please, please let me have the power to fly. In Jesus name I pray, amen. I thought these words each night, and each morning I’d wake from my nightmares to find that I, in fact, could not fly. I was always disappointed.
“Jezebel, what are you thinking about?”
“Flying.”
There is laughter. “Flying is for the birds, dear.”
“Then I’d like to be a bird.”
“And what would you do as a bird? You couldn’t speak, or walk.”
“Bu
Shift (Version 2)Human legs were not built for speed. No more than human teeth were built for ripping throats. But we make do with what we have.
My bare feet pounded the soft mulch of the forest floor, kicking up dead leaves as I raced between trees. Biting cold lanced through my shoulder. The needle-like dart that dug in behind my shoulder blade sent spasms through the muscle, numbing it. My breathing was hard, and the sound of air rushing through my lungs was almost as loud as the blood in my ears. But not so loud as to drown out the sounds of voices calling, and heavy boots slapping the ground behind me. They were getting closer.
A gunshot cracked through the air. The tree just to my right spat bark and wood chips as the bullet slammed into it. I ducked instinctively, raising a hand against the flying splinters. I veered left, and the next gunshot scraped my arm. I hissed as a line of heat was drawn across my elbow, tearing the thin cotton of my shirt.
I needed to rest, to hide. I needed to get the

THE DEPARTUREMomma, your daughter is dripping down the side of the world, dissipating slowly.
I thought you should know.
At night I hear the police helicopter circling like a fat buzzard, contemplating if it
will kill- perhaps, not kill. It hums as it picks the city clean while I am a sieve,
howling hungry. I gape and gape and run right through the days, thinking: to kill
or not to kill. I thought you should know.
Tuesday rolled into Wednesday and I was caught somewhere between, slipping
through myself. I dreamt of orchards: tart citrus splitting my tongue and bees
working themselves through my hair. Grandpa was there, asking after Grandma,
his shirt, crisp from the iron, eclipsing the fruits. He was no more reachable than
the summers he spent under the verandah, his shirt, crisp from the iron, safe from
the sun. I was eight, treading water, and from the edges: bursting oleander. You
were coming to pick me up, Momma. When I dried off, my legs read: MEAN MEAN!
MEAN and I was balled
UntitledThe clock sounds, sounds, sounds.
It's a soft wood, like a weathered plank for a playground seesaw.
Is there really deafening silence?
Does it not make a difference if you can't hear it?
Sure, you can feel it,
But can't you always?
The last marble from my ancient Newton's cradle fell
From my desk to the tile overlay floor.
Rat.  Tat, tat tat-tat-tat.
Dun is the smoke the hellfire exhales,
And indefatigable is the man at the bellows.
Let the darkest seal shut my eyes.
It's too much for a quarter of my brain to handle.
Why, then, do my eyes sting at night?
Hey, what's that green thing across the room?  If that's
The Boogeyman, I'm running to the preschool.
Little nose-pickers will eat him for me.
That exercise ball could be a good instrument;
It reverberates and resonates within itself.
I'm licking the screen door; it's metal
But doesn't taste like it.  It's fresh outside.
Rubbing my tongue against the screen makes it feel hairy.
I hope there's no bug juice on it.
Oops.
dawn orbitmy mother dies every morning.
here is how: i wake up.
i am already wearing today's
clothes. i am already humming
today's song. i am already
breathing today's air.
i go into my mother's room
without knocking. i say good
morning. she says is it? i say
yes. or sometimes i say no.
or sometimes i say maybe, it
depends. sometimes i don't
say anything. either way she
kisses me on the forehead and
calls me her lovely. she smiles
and she chokes. her skin pales,
her hair greys. i have breathed
away all of today's air.
i make coffee, walk down to
the bus stop. leave the body
behind. when i come home it
has begun to decompose into
the sheets. has begun to sink
into the house. i make dinner
in today's clothes humming
today's song.
in the evening i play video games
and leave the doors all closed. my
veins are expanding, my tear
ducts do not work properly. i
climb into bed. when i wake up
clothes and song and breath and all
i go into my mother's room
without knocking. i say good
morning and she says






Current Love dA Lit Article: Issue 206 | A Smattering of Lit News | Community Portal



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Stephany
Artist | Literature
United States

For You.




IT'S MORPHIN' TIME

Thank you.


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:iconthe-hip-death-goddes:
The-Hip-Death-Goddes Featured By Owner 19 hours ago  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thanks for the llama! :)
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(1 Reply)
:icondersecinnia:
DerseCinnia Featured By Owner 1 day ago
Thank you for the llama! :)
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:iconsanagaz:
Sanagaz Featured By Owner 1 day ago  Hobbyist Writer
Hey, thanks for the llama. :)
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:iconbattlefairies:
BATTLEFAIRIES Featured By Owner May 18, 2015
Thank you for Favouriting my journal!
You suuuuure you don't want to come and ask the Djinn a question? 'Ask The Djinn' stamp by BATTLEFAIRIES
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:iconmrs-freestar-bul:
Mrs-Freestar-Bul Featured By Owner May 18, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the :+fav::heart:
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