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About Literature / Hobbyist Alexis Caitlin KingFemale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 6 Years
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Literature
Claire Donnelly's Murder
He sat in his golden jalopy dead in the center of the bustling outdoor mall. This was the local hang-out for all of the high school kids. He sat next to his old friend, Peter, as he watched the countless forms of bodies walk past his car. On the radio old French music played quietly and rhythmically. Light and delicate, its words hung in the air like a spider’s silk licking a gentle breeze. The rhythm settled in his chest; his heart taking time with each note played by the violin.
He couldn’t understand the words to her song, but something sounded so fresh, so seductive to him. He had heard the song one night on the radio; a public broadcast being transmitted live from a music hall somewhere in France. Her whispers had lingered through that breathless night, twisting across the stars and hanging between them. Seemingly written by the night sky itself.  The hauntingly melancholy tune had been seared in his mind that night and for many years to come.
This was his fifth g
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Literature
The Abyss
The moon came out from behind the mountains, rising above the earth like a glowing pumpkin. Big and plump, it rose up and cast the ground with an unsettling light. I lay back in the grass, the crickets chirping all around me.
What was this night supposed to be like?
I couldn’t help but feeling like the man on the moon was watching me, keeping one monstrous, cheesy eye on me and the other on the sun’s orbit. I wondered what life in outer space would be like; how freeing it must be to float within the abyss.
I felt my skin lifting off the warmth of the grass.
I drifted upward into the sky and I nicked my elbow on the edge of the moon. The man looked up at me and laughed quietly to himself asking me if I were alright. I shut my eyes tightly fearing how far above the ground I was. When I gained the courage to open my eyes, all fear dissipated.
I was there, just being. That is all I was. Just a being floating above the great blue; marveling at how small my mother and father were
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Literature
Pressure
stalactites hang from the ceiling
of this pre-apocalyptic era
it's just a basic dance
with no choreography needed
yes, we're just pawns in this
these shuttles still move
massive metallic worms under earth
under cities we wait, fine-tuned clocks
our own biology a caveat against us
at an ever increasing rate
he looks along the embedded grooves
electricity pulsating at his feet
pressure seeps into his being
a calm smile of knowing; too much
and he leaps
she sits idly at her desk
a hundred feet from the sky
watching out the window
at the ants passing by
we're really nothing in the end
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Literature
Old
the truth behind this delicate vibrancy is the yellow half moon over royal indigo skies.
happiness flies past stars, twinkling cerulean diamonds, through clouds of dust,
the precursors of tye-dyed existence. it's the height of truth
where everything mortal- everything that we found as fact becomes obsolete.
there is something undoubtedly splendid about the blackness,
the bleak, stark emptiness that surrounds the words on this page
similar to the sweet star-licked night, that encompasses the universe.
the perpetual drab melancholy; the nothing that resounds the hollows within.
there is something so simple about the complexity of neurons
strung together on microscopic nerves; weaving together and forming webs that
hold together the physical pleasure that our cocoon of red-juice meat feels.
the very fiber, the filament of human existence
if it is not to be mortal, then what is it to be?
if it is not to be, then why?
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Literature
call to arms
call to chrysanthemums!
your holy war, bathed in gold
i eat your thick-skinned wonder years
and lay in pillowed coffins
with the rembrandt picture
that your mother stole.
oh, gritty teeth,
your wondrous cult
following of the masses is
deeper than ayn or charlie
could've hoped.
what does this tell you
of the depleted soul;
the resin dripping
from the tree of life?
these are not myth.
these are child gatherings,
philosophic meanderings,
flayed breasts and smokey eyes
on the bosom of sister earth.
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Literature
Lament of an Atheist
I cut candles straight down their waxy center
just by looking into the flame. Slick peels of
honeycomb melt into my palm and blister skin.
Then the world ricochets forward.
I plummet back into my body and there's
a thick distortion in audio. A constant pulse at
the back of my eyes, tuned to the rhythm of your
heartbeat. I look for traces of you, but,
God, you're lost.
Leaves fall as paper lanterns from wooden fingers.
Spiraling upwards on the breath of cosmos, back
to Heaven, lit like the sun on a marvelous azure
backdrop. I needed your wisdom, but all is gone.
Christ, you're dead.
Atheists are not meant to love. Realists are not
meant for passion. Idealists are the dreamers
of their own demise; only they can make it
happen.
A man once told me that the astute make terrible
lovers, but I'll fight that to the bitter end. Maybe
the irrational are so hopeful in their wafts of
hallucination they cannot come to mindful conclusions
of their forsaken love.
There's a poet under my skin, itching
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Literature
Harbory
Here, the sky lights up richly.
A dawn before time, with a
sky bright and wonderful,
as the sun peeks from behind the bay;
yawning, as she stretches
her arms out through the clouds.
Here, early morning comet tails last a lifetime;
their chartreuse embers flickering as flame.
As I grit my teeth, and stare upwards
along rugged geometry, morning star's
rays shard off and sear my retina
with wholesome goodness.
I knew this world unspun
as a spool of thread,
dropped from the desk
of the seamstress;
unwinding, unwinding
forever.
The pumpkin moon, and the smiling man
slunk back on heels of cheese,
rose high above the structures
that grew like trees from the cement.
I watched everything unfold around me;
with people whizzing by as I sat slow motion,
and smiled inside.
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Literature
Second-Long Thought
I watched scarlet honey-drop fronds unfurl slowly,
its particles of time visible through lace sheaths.
I wanted to love you immensely; to trap you in my
sticky-sweet fingertips and suck the life right out
of you, sip-by-sip.
          (There wasn't much there.)
Instead, you sped up my pulse, with your
amphetamine rush of concocted chemicals;
stopped me mid-stride and stole my heart.
         (But grew thoughts like wildflower.)
Lacking all physicality of passion-painted particulars,
and chewing apart my newly manifested mind;
       -listening to the discord of a minor strum-
         (It's what I'm left with.)
Now, I'm tone deaf and praying to faulty gods for
swift, unruly departure from this unnatural,
superficial world, wrought full with censorship
       and no purpose of bei
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Literature
Protect
Orion,
you kept us
-so close;
sparkling futilely on
starlit drops of
aquamarine,
weaving in and out
on silken threads;
perforating genius
clusters of time.
You have become a
romance of sorts;
keeping childish
-meanderings
malleable, amoebic.
Charting unspoken
territories from
the lynx, giving
unto me with open
-palms;
nurturing, loving.
Looking into you,
your heart; deeply
encompassed by all your
Athenic glory. Keeping,
lively, content,
transfixed.
There, above;
heavenly protector!
I need you like dawn
needs the polite
chirpings of birds;
like fall needs frost
to subdue life into
perpetual hibernation.
Even still,
my darling wildflower!
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Literature
To Whomever It May Concern
"Good morning, Jupiter."
   Your eyes were glazed over, like an amber painted clay mug recently fired. I watched as you teetered forward with your sack filled with sugar and poured  a heaping serving into the stark black coffee. You turned around and smiled with teeth slightly yellowed from the coffee you adored so much. I never minded the smell of a fresh brew that lingered within each follicle of your hair. Lowering yourself to me (you are so much larger) you succumbed my frail body within your arms, whispering good morning in my ear. Sentimentality never meant much to me until I met you.
The koala was a bastard.
   I was four, and nearly always sickly. As much as you may not want to know, I always had some sort of tract infection, and my T-cells were just not strong enough to keep my body healthy. One particular night, after being tucked into bed, my fever rapidly spiked and I was visited by wafting hallucinations. On and off disasters that st
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Literature
Liluye
There was something broken in the way she stared out from the gaps in the supports. The bridge was old; and as condemned as a bridge could possibly be. It spanned the length of planetary systems, and she was the only one who could still find it.
Somewhere hidden in between her imagination and the tree in her front yard, the bridge was her only get away; no one could find her there. Not that there was anyone to look. She was only seven, and she couldn't remember ever seeing another person. Instead, she got to know the trees.
Flowers bloomed in her footsteps. She saw light in the darkness; and her heart had no hollows. She was a goddess hiding, but she didn't yet know it. Not having ever seen another being like herself, she was a typical human.
She could not speak, her tongue having fused to the roof of her mouth. She was blind and deaf and mute, and there was never anything.
          Until she returned to the bridge, she didn't really e
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Literature
Seeming To Be
I.
I'm wallowing deep
in rusty brown sea
foam- the hue of your
eyes- just after I told
you I never belonged to
                        anyone.
I'm easing my way out
from dark, impenetrable
mines where those
wan-colored creatures
(the ones lacking eyes)
slip and hide under
                   calcified rock.
I'm sucking the marrow
from the bones of the
last of the plain buffalo,
and wolves stare
with jealous eyes as I sop
up the bone-butter with
                        sweet bread.
I'm envied by bears for
the ingenious use of
opposable thumbs; extracting
sweet-honeyed larvae with
             
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Literature
Colonials
as we crawl back into our holes
deep, moist, nutrient rich dirt
fills the gaps beneath our nails
while we gouge our hands deep into
earth's flesh.
hear her scream:
over mountaintops, surging
through columns of tree
beds; searching hopelessly
for someone to listen.
never realizing the fourth piece,
the one that kept this world churning
like butter in the heavens. human
life sprouting like viral microbes;
spreading our cancerous cityscape over
the same healthy land.
the mud buried in fingerprints
filled with her immunity, much
like white blood cells, struggling
to correct what we have wronged.
this world is not our own;
we are only habitués.
feeling vibrations of our tools
piercing through this rocky crust,
digging deep within our home to
exploit the last of her goodness;
what made her our home.
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Literature
Cockroach Cafe
There was a big guy, right there in front of my face. His mandibles moving, eating the glue that held the wood boards together. And another to my left, not so big, but you could tell by the way he laughed that he was the ring leader.
I'm modestly sized; my mother tells me I'm still growing. I try not to be intimidated by these other roaches, just sitting there, chewing and laughing. Bits of glue and fiber fly out of their mouths; it's quite grotesque, really.
So I sit here, by myself.
"I'll have a paper leaf, please."
The waitroach looks at me skeptically, but whisks herself away on legs obviously too small for her voluptuous curved back. I doubted that she'd be alive much longer.
All of these roaches all so... gross. No wonder we were the least liked species on the planet.
I sighed deeply, a small trill escaping my lungs. I take a sip of of my glue, and get back to writing.
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Literature
Where?
I must have fallen asleep or something. When I woke up, I was inside a ballon; big, orange and filled to the brim with a hot hair that left you nearly incapable of breathing. There was nothing inside- only the color that was illuminated by the rays of the sun shining through it. I sit curled in a ball at the bottom of the ball and hear air pushing through the seams of the sphere.
I wonder how long I've been in here; how long I've been sleeping. Or how I got here. I'm bouncing around and for some strange reason, it keeps getting colder and colder. I wish I knew where I was. I wish more than anything that I could be more nervous or frightened by the prospect of being caged within a giant ball.
Something about the air keeps making me nod off.
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Literature
A Tribute to Mom
I kept the stovetop too hot, I think.
The sink was laughing in my ear,
and the vent was coughing from smoke.
I quickly apologized to the microwave,
now shrouded in thick black tar.
I don't think he cared all too much.
I could hear the little onions
screaming in the fiery cauldron,
smothered by hot oil, hissing.
I couldn't think. They were blackened
and crispy, tasting of coal.
I looked at my daughter and whispered,
"You cook next time."
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These are the things I think of as I dream;
I am the ant walking wire over the stream.

Favourites

Literature
The Old God, Savitr
ॐ भूर्भुव: स्व: तत्सवितुर्वरेण्यं ।
भर्गो देवस्य धीमहि, धीयो यो न: प्रचोदयात् ।।
I.
The wind blew sand into your nonchalant soul,
and your heart coughed. I entered the circle
at night, and I was consumed by fire. I did not
know of you then. I have fractured myself into
a thousand souls: but they are all whole, for I did
see you in my absence. Yet you? - you
were sailing, and your head was
full of water light.
II.
I was significant when your mother poured out water
in a copper pot from a balcony; water, which
caught and held the moon, and then spilled over
with a quiet radiance. You wondered whether
the moon l
:iconVigilo:Vigilo
:iconvigilo:Vigilo 161 86
Within Us by WolfSkullJack Within Us :iconwolfskulljack:WolfSkullJack 5,822 293 linzy by gawki linzy :icongawki:gawki 431 23 Mardy - Work in Progress by Carnegriff Mardy - Work in Progress :iconcarnegriff:Carnegriff 201 24 Caught in the moment by ailah Caught in the moment :iconailah:ailah 5,945 299 Sky for Dreamers by RHADS Sky for Dreamers :iconrhads:RHADS 12,566 414
Literature
The king who lost his crown
I knew the fountain of your apologies was flooding the room, but for the first time, my ears shut out your words. All I was listening to now were the sweet thoughts of our childhood that were sailing upon clouds of heartbreak.
After all we were just kids then, sitting beneath the trunk of the oldest apple tree in town like royalty. I watched as the riveting words rolled off your tongue plunging into the crisp air executing all sorts of somersaults and flips before finally reaching my eager ears. The other kids called you the king of stories.
Why were your tales always so welding? Was it because your voice reached the various highs and lows like the valleys of deep mountain ranges? Or was it because your face would start to turn purple? Perhaps from all the words carrying oxygen molecules out of your lungs in a rather humorous way.
Or maybe, just maybe, was it because I loved you? I guess my clumsy, youth filled, little heart couldn't help but fall in love with the boy who gallantly sat
:iconsimran31:simran31
:iconsimran31:simran31 4 6
Literature
O Fevrale
Witching hour, welcomed with a sigh,
bare-breasted and ink-stained in the night.
Half in love in this half-life half-light;
pisat O Fevrale navsnryd, dreaming
of the gods. Wanderer, today I died and
died again, and whispered prayers
to clasped hands… until the nestled
droplets fell away like sunrays at dusk;
and when moonrise came, I sang again.
:iconConcora:Concora
:iconconcora:Concora 51 45
Literature
Euros' Inferno
In a smoke blanket
mistaken for overcast, he
wraps us –
the wind, undoing –
and the old gum tree writhes
against him, but
we sit inside
with our homes on fire.
:iconConcora:Concora
:iconconcora:Concora 23 25
Black Water by hypnothalamus Black Water :iconhypnothalamus:hypnothalamus 284 10 Engel's solitude by hypnothalamus Engel's solitude :iconhypnothalamus:hypnothalamus 139 1 La Licorne by hypnothalamus La Licorne :iconhypnothalamus:hypnothalamus 362 11 La Licorne by hypnothalamus
Mature content
La Licorne :iconhypnothalamus:hypnothalamus 187 19
Homunculus by hypnothalamus Homunculus :iconhypnothalamus:hypnothalamus 518 14 La Licorne by hypnothalamus La Licorne :iconhypnothalamus:hypnothalamus 344 17 The Persistence of the Past by hypnothalamus The Persistence of the Past :iconhypnothalamus:hypnothalamus 251 22

Activity


I'm not sure if it's just procrastination, or some other horrible sort of something I'm in, but I sit here and look at a blank page for hours on end. I sit, surf and wait for that fairytale wave to crest, peak and blow before my eyes. You know, that wonderful sort of idea that sticks in between your teeth, and you get really antsy trying to claw at it with anything pointy and preferably leaded, until all you've got left is a clump of half-chewed nothing on the paper in front of you, and your teeth taste like ink or graphite.
Yeah, that's me on a day to day.
Except, it's not only with writing. It's with everything. My room? Smells like carved pumpkin, which is sort of worrisome, because it hasn't been cleaned in a couple weeks and it's very far from October. The cleanest room in the house is the living room and I haven't stepped foot out there for weeks, unless to scurry through to get out the door and off to work.
It's weird that the boys are more conscientious of this than myself.
So, as we now near the end of December, I'm becoming increasingly worried and perturbed by my lack of motivation to tackle this severe procrastination issue.
So it seems my New Years Resolution is obvious.
Terminate procrastination to this degree.

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:iconbetweentheechoes:
BetweenTheEchoes Featured By Owner Aug 31, 2016
Do you still frequent dA?
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:iconxxbrokenwristxx:
Xxbrokenwristxx Featured By Owner Aug 1, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Welcome! Thank you so much for joining :iconcritique-for-all:
We hope you have an awesome time with us! 
If you have any questions, queries or issues feel free to talk to any of the Co-Founders at our group, we are happy to assist you. 
Our group aims to provide tips and improvements through critiques for all members of dA. It is absolutely free and you only need to wait a few days for the critique. 
Also, if you are an aspiring critiques, you can join us and we will help improve your critiques as well! 
Let's improve dA together by providing great critiques to everyone! 
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:iconconcora:
Concora Featured By Owner Apr 24, 2013   Writer
I hope you had a great birthday. All the best. :rose:
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:iconimaginative-lioness:
imaginative-lioness Featured By Owner Apr 23, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Happy Birthday :heart:!
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:iconmoozipan:
Moozipan Featured By Owner Apr 22, 2013
Happy Birthday!!:D:heart:
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:iconconcora:
Concora Featured By Owner Feb 27, 2013   Writer
Thank you for the watch. Have a lovely day. :heart:
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:iconconcora:
Concora Featured By Owner Feb 17, 2013   Writer
Thank you for the favourite of Euros' Inferno. :heart:
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:iconorganicvision:
organicvision Featured By Owner Feb 9, 2013   Photographer
Procrastination can be useful. Sometimes issues disappear if you are patient. A few works have been published on this subject. For myself urgent matters motivate creativity.
Reply
:iconalexiscaitlinking:
alexiscaitlinking Featured By Owner Feb 9, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Procrastination... Sounds like an evil lurking dragon....
Just stretching his jaws to eat me right up!
Reply
:iconthegirlforgotten:
TheGirlForgotten Featured By Owner Nov 30, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Nice gallery
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