deviant art

Deviant Login
Buy ArtBuy T-Shirts & Gear Buy adCast Buy Premium Membership
Shop		  Join deviantART for FREE Take the Tour
[x]
On Identity Doubled     In the old days, which means when my identical twin and I lived in the same state, we were often asked, "What's it like to be a twin?" At age twelve, I got tired of that and answered the question with a question, "What's it like not to be a twin?"

     Good question. My sister and I were born about six years after our one sibling, so I was the "baby" in our family by one minute. The age gap between our older sister and us also made us ever more a firm two-some than twins from larger and closer families. My twin and I were called "identical mirror twins," which means she's left-handed and
The Black Bag     The problem was simple, really. I was a little too drunk. Me and my buddy Jake though, we found it simple to walk with a stagger and laugh a little too loud, a simple problem. The day was pretty good, pretty drunk.

     The hours passed easy until Max came out of his pawnshop. Max never leaves his pawnshop. He looked so worried and strange I had to squint to be sure it was him. He got us interested, walking toward my buddy and me with trouble written all over his face. Trouble is something a man can relate to from time to time, somehow.

     Max walked right up
Spray Your Sins Away!It was a scene of utmost suspense, the cliché that often made its way into romantic comedies and commercials. Inside Dick's We-Carry-Every-Item-Imaginable-for-the-Filthy-Rich, two different people reached for the last can of Sins-B-Gone in cinematic slow motion. One hand was French-manicured and wore an ostentatious diamond ring (inscribed "Love forever, to my Richard"); the other had "Vermilion Vixen" nails and was likely to never wear such a wedding ring. Fingers from both hands closed in on the blue spray can like eager vultures, plucking it off the shelf in synch. Both ladies blinked in confusion before they realized the other was th
Mama's Jewell - Introduction     Jewell was fourteen and travelling by train farther than she'd ever been in her life. She was going to San Francisco to meet her mother for the first time. She'd been on a train once before. She went to Galveston when she was nine, with her cousins Alda and Nettie to see big water, but this time she had to get dressed up and carry her meals in a cardboard box.

     Jewell was scared. She was even scared of the train itself, but she sat upright, her face solemn. Still, her thoughts jumped from the past to the unknown future while she struggled for bravery. There were so many strangers her
Dirty MagicWilliam was bleeding, crying, and slowly dying.
"You're not done with me," he said. Red spilled between cracked lips. "I know you're not. I know you want to see more." Tears spilled from eyes, gently cut a path through the gore mattered on white cheeks, and tangled in a trimmed grey beard. "W-we're not done..." Do words make a sound if no one is there to hear them? "We're not done here do you hear me! I'm not dying here!"
But he was. Impossibly, the arrow that boy had shot had hit him, punched through chain mail, and sunk greedily into his lung. Air whistled through his chest, blood welled in his throat, and that boy stood over him; hair long and braided in the style of the natives, skin dusky, and face painted red and white. He looked frightened. But that could be the magic still wearing off. The cursed magic of the witches that led his people. The Fear.
"You can't take him," William realised with a sudden savage glee. "He's already taken! We're not done!" But still blood spilled, sti
All Sewed Up     It was a guy who introduced himself mainly as a Scorpio (with the added name of Simon) who inspired Helen's best art work. She wasn't much of an artist, really -- more of a reader, and not so hot at that either. Simon asked her to embroider a large scorpion on the back of his thin denim shirt, so that's what she did.

    Helen used every shade of the many reds she had in her embroidery kit, shaping the scorpion, sculpting it. She separated the six strands of thread to make a piece of embroidery thread thin enough. She knew the more subtlety there was in a piece, the better it looked.

    For this scorpion, she couldn't stop until it
The Perversity of WeSometimes on a quiet night
due to my perversity,
or perhaps my common nature,
I dream awake of what may happen
should my twin die before me.

I may be walking calm and laughing
down city street or red rock ridge
and she would reach me over the miles
reaching straight to all five senses
reaching intense with her actions
reaching deep inside me.

Stronger than telepathies
often had when we were kids
stronger than futile restlessness
unexplained 'til mail arrives,
stronger than what may surround me
I know how she would reach me.

I would see her clear as day,
clearer than the sights around me
and I'd know her way of going
and h
Mirage Redux  
     It's the Summer Powwow, and I feel like a little kid let loose in a toy store.

     Other women put silverwork, beaded belts and more in booths that circle the empty dance area.
     Under canvas-rigged shade, chairs are saved for Indian elders.

     My chair's in full sun, but I don't care.
     I prepared for that with sunblock. It's hot and though I'm kind-of Cheyenne, it's a very small part. The outside of me is quite fair, though in the winter my hair is dark. I'd be sunburnt in seconds sinc
Caught in Battle     Lately I've been doing a lot of not sleeping at night. That is to say, I fall asleep fine, but about one in the morning the dreams turn to thoughts and I'm not at all asleep anymore. I just lie there, thinking too much to even close my eyes. My eyes feel bad in the red mornings, after staring in the dark so long each night, so tonight I light the oil lamp and sit up.

     I might as well write what was requested by a friend a few days ago, at dinner together.
     I find it doesn't kill dream memories, though.

     At that dinner, my f
AlphaIn the hollow of my hand, I hold eternity

Here, caught on the fault-lines of fresh skin
Dandelion-seed, breath-weight, bright as a new star
Shimmering, liquid light, spilling soundless
Through gaps between curled, curved fingers

Here, standing in pure paper-white oblivion
Feet firm on the shore of nothing-in-particular
I stand, sole singer of creation

Here, where the first strands of night boil out
From puddled pools of glowing, silvered light
Where spreading tendrils seep, call sea, sky, land
From blank eternal brightness
Where the stars, jewel-bright, one by one
Glitter into sparkling existence

And darkness, new and bright, bl
faulty molds beget faulty girlsi've been crafted from too many
once-upon-a-times,
all frightened and flighty,
within a mold of nursery rhymes.

a beggar with a cup -
i plead for the right lines
to be tossed inside this bottomless
sea of lightless i'll-be-fines.

and with sweet pencil pricks,
he punctures soggy paper;
and with disgusting flicks,
my tongue has become an enabler.

i spill black ink from my stomach
and choke down all his light,
vomiting on all these fireflies,
pinning them down to a canvas of trite.

and as i hand him, gracefully,
this gift made just for him -
he smiles and thanks me graciously
for bestowing the stars and all of my sin.
Doyle's CuriosityDoyle had never seen or touched a dollar bill.

Of course, he had heard about what was called now as physical money—but it was only in the context of "It's a good thing that we all got rid of physical money a long time ago. It's really less hassle!"

Doyle was used to the concept of EC. After all, it was all he had known, and he had possessed an EC card since he was eight years old. That was the age the government gave children EC cards, and parents were required to place an allowance (however meager they wished) into the card.

EC, or electronic currency for short, was adopted by the United States and most European countries before Doyl
The imminent menace of the wall above the townit grew upon the town-
cool and slimy,
slicked like saliva across the cobblestones
subtle : invasive, therefore
but slow and uncomfortable

looming high above the grey roofs,
it stretched eons in every direction
and so tall that it cracked the sky.

morning to evening shadows
so, so heavy-
wheezing laboured breaths
that trickled down covered necks,
icy…

dirty

the sun was blotted

as swift as a draft steals heat
long, dripping tongues
licked the walls
cracks, windowpanes, eaves
fountain square, around doorknobs
behind children’s ears,
down their chests
-and the smell grew,
adaptable yet
unchangingly repulsive

its lethargic feet
Mama's Jewell - One     The train slowed with a lurch that woke Jewell from dreams of home back in Texas.
     Her hat was in her lap, her cheek cold from the window. She smoothed her hair and replaced her hat. Jewell moved one foot back to be sure her suitcase was under the seat. The evening outside was lit by city street lamps. Where was she?

     She was at a train station that looked so big, it could hold every church at home.
     On the platform where they stopped, people stood in large, expectant groups. They were all sizes and colors. Some people had
Say 'Yah, Mon'     The crew dropped anchor about nine. The "master and commander" was already drinking then, headed for another blackout. I stayed out of everyone's way, as I often did on this wonderful trip through the U.S. and British Virgin Islands.
     I sat on the prow of a thirty-foot sailboat, wearing the yellow bikini this time. I liked to sit there most when the sails strained, taut with wind, racing ahead of a December storm through high waves with no land in sight. I liked the commotion and motion on a boat like that, running through choppy water on the Caribbean sea.

    
Browse More Like This
more ▶

More from *xlntwtch

The Spree     Bought twenty postcards.
     Have
     no
     friends.
OddWalls covered with
a
r
t
So deviously.
The Deadly UrgeCan't wait, must
fight for bathroom.
The Way a Day Can Be     I was fourteen and finally a nanny. I started babysitting at that apartment complex down the hill when I was nine. My Mom liked that. She used to show me a lot about what to do with the littler kids, like how to play games with them and how make sure they didn't fight and how to teach them stuff, even if they didn't want to learn any of it.

     But now I live up the hill with the pastor and his wife and their little girl, a tiny monster dressed in real nice clothes, blessed with curly blonde hair and big blue eyes to hide behind. The pastor and his wife, Reverend and Mrs. King, were alw
Diversionary Tactics     "And would you care to buy a gram, sir? Great price on coke today," the girl smiled.
     Lucas never saw that girl work here before.
     He immediately said, "Are you kidding?!" and used his uppity Mercedes power to get away from that drive-through bank as quickly as possible. Man. That never happened to Lucas before. Was it the case of Old Forrester on the passenger seat?
     No. It couldn't have been.

     As it was, Lucas had more cocaine at his house than any one gram delivered in a pneumatic tube at s
It's All in the Details     July Seven
     Patient: Ms. Dalliance Johnston
     Patient Report

     Ms. Johnston remains in the same condition as reported in June. Because I prefer to keep my notes on a personal level, I will again refer to her as Dalliance. She answers to no other name as it is, and I find nothing wrong with that.

     Again, Dalliance spoke so much and was so overpowering, I really had no time to test for change. She complains of lack of sleep, talking aloud to herself, "falling asleep at a stop sign when [she] drives"

Featured in Groups:

:iconthewrittenrevolution: #theWrittenRevolution
The words are the spark. :iconunconventional-story: #Unconventional-Story
 :iconword-smiths: #Word-Smiths
 :iconwritersink: #WritersInk
What's your story?

Details

February 9
5.7 KB
Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 107
Favourites: 43 [who?]


Views: 692 (0 today)
Downloads: 3 (0 today)

License

Creative Commons License
Some rights reserved. This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
[x]

*xlntwtch has limited the viewing of this artwork
to members of the deviantART community only.

You can log in or become a member for FREE!

:iconxlntwtch:
....

:icondonotuseplz::iconmyartplz: ...without my permission... :iconcommentswelcomeplz:

:bulletred: For #theWrittenRevolution - [link] :bulletred:

For lit crit:
1. Do you understand the setting soon enough?
2. "Get it" why the main character isn't named or referred to much, besides thoughts?
3. Have any suggestions for improvement you'd like to write?
4. Title?


#ScreamPrompts#WritersInk#GetWatchersMod:#TheMysteryGuild#theWrittenRevolution#CritiqueIt#Elocutionists#vicious-verse
#Unconventional-StoryMod=DailyLitDeviationsProseAdmin#Word-Smiths#Fiction-Writers#ArtHistoryProject#CRLiterature#DD-Catalogue
Add a Comment:
 
Preview   Add Comment
love 0 0 joy 1 1 wow 0 0 mad 0 0 sad 0 0 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:icondevibrigard:
~DeviBrigard Mar 23, 2013
At first I was just going to pass this by, but then my gaze fell on the first few lines and it sucked me in. Before I knew it, I had read it all and it was added to my favourites.
The piece flows wonderfully; the progression of thoughts makes sense as it is read, and nothing seems at all out of place.
You obviously know what you're doing, so I'll let you get on with it :D
Reply
:iconxlntwtch:
*xlntwtch Mar 23, 2013   Writer
I'm very glad you like this piece, and like it enough to give it a star.
You can bet your booty I'll "get on with it." :D
:iconquillplz:<-That's supposed to be me writing. It looks rather strange, doesn't it?
Reply
:icondevibrigard:
~DeviBrigard Mar 23, 2013
With a quill. Fancy :D
Reply
:iconxlntwtch:
*xlntwtch Mar 23, 2013   Writer
I thought the feather fit this [non-:shh:]fiction. It's a chicken feather. :lol:
Reply
:icondevibrigard:
~DeviBrigard Mar 23, 2013
Fitting indeed :D
Reply
:iconqueermuffin:
~QueerMuffin Mar 23, 2013  New member Hobbyist Writer
this whole piece is just so down-to-earth and wonderful.
Reply
:iconxlntwtch:
*xlntwtch Mar 23, 2013   Writer
I like your assessment = short and sweet. And thanks much for the star. Now I'm :iconswingonastarplz:
Reply
:iconjas08:
~jas08 Mar 7, 2013
:iconbowplz:
Why not just call it "Chicken?"

As always my friend, an entertaining and engrossing read. I really like your stories of life on the "rez".
I think what I really like with this piece is how you capture the awkwardness of being ourselves in a different culture- how we can be embarrassed by the way our lives have played out, how our abilities and the lack-there-of, can make us feel ashamed when faced with such cultural differences.
Reply
:iconxlntwtch:
*xlntwtch Mar 7, 2013   Writer
That title's a good idea.
I kept trying to come up with one that reflected the 'game' some play with cars, and never once thought to simply call it "Chicken," which is, after all, the name of that 'car game.' Isn't it?

I ended up with this mouthful, which I'll keep only because it seems to draw more folks into reading it. (I think.) RE the ways we are in different cultures and settings, the way the simplest task can remove many a mask, well, I just loved writing this story. It was the most fun I've had in a while and is mislabeled (<-one or two "l"-s?) as well.

Good to see you, and I'm glad you visited!
I was going to write back to you via another way, but will a bit later.
Expect it in a few days, okay? Okay. :heart:
Reply
:iconlolijoke:
~lolijoke Mar 5, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Oh, this is really good. I got way into it and I don't know I just really, really like it. (I'm one of AnonDesu's groupies and nothing tops his comments, but I always feel bad about favoriting without comments so here my inarticulate comment is.)
Reply
Add a Comment:
 
Preview   Add Comment
©2013 deviantART. All rights reserved
About Us | Contact Us | Developers | Careers | Site Tour | Help & FAQ Advertise | Premium Membership Etiquette | Privacy Policy | Terms of Service | Copyright Policy