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About Literature / Artist Premium Member LJUnited States Group :iconlitrecognition: LitRecognition
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Deviant for 4 Years
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Various Art I Like

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Critique "Like Math, but with No Numbers" You left no questions so I'll just give you my opinion about whatever strikes me. I don't think this story is too short or too long. It's just right. I like a story that presents word-pictures right away and doesn't spend a lot of time explaining everything....


Critique for "Um" You didn't leave any questions, and I'm operating on opinion only, but here we go into a short critique. 1. It's short because I see the need to advertise such a Society, excellently made into a business card that can go up on the 'fridge. I like the address you left for FB, and ho...


Artist | Literature
United States
The Coffee God behind the counter side shelf shuffles from foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso.

by anapests-and-ink

Have you heard of Verdus Gerd/The Master of the grassling herd?/He tamed the herd with just one word/The strangest word you ever heard/A word to slow a hummingbird..."

by PandaCat-Productions 
She was like a New Yorker cartoon without the class.

by AnonDesu
she sells 9mm shells by the seashore,/says she can hear the ocean./but if you listen close to these shells/you can hear ghosts.

by krutch99
Chainsaw growls and guttural screams disrupted the peace of the pre-dawn hours.

by JZLobo
v. If I knew how to fuse our brain synapses together and show you how much I love you -- I probably wouldn't do it. Besides, that's creepy.

by bonfirelights

Thanks you to all you visit or watch me. You're always noticed, even if I have no time to tell you. :heart:

Into the GraveSigns line the road, flimsy plastic threatening to twist away in the bite of fall wind. They proclaim: “Plots starting as low as $750!”
It had never occurred to me that graveyards needed advertising.
This road splits the city’s economic divide. To the west there is a sprawling cemetery with lawns still immaculately green even though the weather has turned its face towards winter. The grave markers are distinctive, curves and swoops and tall, tall angels. To the east, though, if it weren’t for the moselem standing guard, the cemetery would look like nothing more than a slightly overgrown field. There’s not a headstone in sight.
And because of that, I cannot find my grandfather.
He was buried months ago, and since that day, I hadn’t been back. Hadn’t even thought of going back. I’ve never understood graves as a place someone visits. The body is there, but the soul is so far gone, buried in other things. Accordions. Polka music. The smell of
Everything You BorrowedOn Sunday afternoon,
after exiting the church,
you plucked the sun from the sky
and hid it in your palms
so that when I held your hands
they would no longer be cold.
When Monday night arrived
you snatched every single star
and used my tears to make
a necklace.
Tuesday's empty dawn shone
through the cracks of the door--
you stole the promise of what
could never be
and draped it around my shoulders.
After Wednesday's twilight passed,
you grabbed the clouds
and wove a tapestry of lies
that I hung on the walls
of my prison.
Thursday crept through us
on silent tiptoes,
waiting for us to take notice--
instead, we merely waited
for midnight to come.
The dusk of Friday waned
while you stripped it of its sorrows
and sewed them into my skin.
When Saturday came
you tried to steal the moon;
I watched as you stood on your tombstone
and stretched to reach it.
You fell, then--
fell, broke your neck,
and landed six feet under.
I couldn't cry afterwards,
for you had taken my agony
and washed it out to
4-2-14to bend and not break to be
broken as this world our only is
yet not cared for but so widely
despised we have lost our
civility replaced with greed
no one of us wishes to share
as if the universe is finite
and each of us wants it all
in our pocket lost among the
car keys and loose change but
what will we do tomorrow there
must be something

GodsendHe looks at her like a godsend,
Believes her name rhymes with miracle.
“That moment in Times Square,
I knew I’d never lose that feeling about you.”
When her face lit up with the flare of a million neon signs,
Beckoning them, selling those dreams dreams dreams.
Her hand in a glove (red polish just starting to chip), and the glove in his hand.
He looks at her like a promise he can’t wait to keep,
Knows her name like a prayer.
Even though she bites her nails to the bone,
Believes in Christmas more than she believes in herself,
Cries over stepping on ladybugs and lost teddy bears,
and her first response to “let’s travel the world,” is
“Isn’t that expensive?”
But he looks at her like a wish coming true,
And her name in his mouth sounds like home.
He remembers her skin under his hands,
And how she looks when she sleeps,
And how much he needs her there today, tomorrow, every day.
The winter is setting in again,
And their ebbing whisp
Help WantedFive months had come and gone and were ready to turn into six; Jerry Thompsen didn't think he'd be out of work that long after Aria was completed.  Every day was the same but not like it had been.  He still woke up at six in the morning but instead of going to the construction site, he made a pot of coffee, scanned the classifieds and wondered what else he'd have to sacrifice for the month so he could still make rent and eat.  Two months ago, it was his cell phone.  He was tethered to his apartment by a landline.  The cable and Internet were long gone.  He was slowly learning how to stop missing them and was embracing the tactile experience that went with reading books and newspapers again.  
He poured a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table.  Sunlight had been streaming in for a while and the yellow-orange glow made the nook in his apartment look somewhat peaceful and healthy.  He defin
The Civilized (1040 Words)Pushed out into the dusty arena, Kuru looked around. A roaring crowd surrounded him, but he couldn’t understand a word. Though they obviously weren’t cheering for his victory, they’re cheering for his sacrifice.
Rewind, this isn’t where the story begins.
In shackles Kuru shuffled along one of the famed roads that lead to Rome, as all the roads did. All the beaten and bruised men of different coloured skin shambled along the road led by the soldiers.
Kuru heard someone speak something in front of him. He realized that the words were in a language he didn’t understand. Then he heard the voice cry out in pain. The line of marching men didn’t stop at the sound, they didn't even slow.
Rewind further, something’s still missing.
His daughter's tanned skin, his wife was teaching her how to work leather. Kuru was watching them as he sharpened his scythe. He smiled, the scene made him remember the times he spent learning from his father.


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thetaoofchaos 1 hour ago  Hobbyist Writer
(1 Reply)
pablapicassa 1 day ago  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
(1 Reply)
TheKrimzonDemon 3 days ago  Professional Writer
Thank you. :) :heart: :dalove:
(1 Reply)
TheKrimzonDemon 4 days ago  Professional Writer
Thank you so much for the donation! I hope to be able to give a membership to someone very soon, and you've helped bring that day closer. :heart:
(1 Reply)
thetaoofchaos 4 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks again for all your wonderful feedback and inquiries,  LJ. :hug:
(1 Reply)
thetaoofchaos Apr 9, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
(1 Reply)
Sleyf Apr 5, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thanks for the fave!
(1 Reply)
Thank you so much for the points, LJ. That's very kind of you :)
(1 Reply)
Thank you for the fave :)
(1 Reply)
MyMasks Mar 26, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
just wanted to let you know you are an awesome human being
(2 Replies)
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