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About Literature / Hobbyist Senior Member Lili Leader-WilliamsFemale/United States Groups :iconddsuggestiondrive: DDSuggestionDrive
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Deviant for 6 Years
Core Member 'til Hell freezes over
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Random from DDs I've Featured

Literature
thoughts of an attractive woman applying lipstick
i trace the colour on my lips the way
ladies in Cosmo blow their husbands.
if we met in a life after this one, 
i hope you'll dance with  thunder
and sell your soul to the   desert
for a chance to marry me  under 
a chandelier of moonlit rain,  for
a chance to sti--tch my soul onto 
yours  with wet threads and blue 
petals, crushed and plastered on
a portrait hanging in our library. 
the tragedy isn't  unrequited love,
it is the universe whose troops of
stars shoot mockingbirds & scoop
their blood into thick pottery jars.  
it is that nobody deserves sorrow 
born out of a dream they thought 
they had the right to have.    and 
some poets in my tattered books 
opened my eyes to love, Do love 
a woman, love a man;   love her 
hard, love him deeply, and shout 
out  je t'aime a la folie  in an old  
tourist house from the top of the 
woode
:iconIyraEMM:IyraEMM
:iconiyraemm:IyraEMM 78 56
Literature
Christmas Wish For You
Christmas Wish For You
14-12-15
Christmas is a time of year that’s filled with fun and toys,
But it’s also that one time of year that should be filled with joys.
For some it is, but there are those whose joy has been sucked up
By mental monsters none can see; these people, they are stuck.
You’ve suffered long and suffered hard, you’ve suffered more than most,
Now comes the hardest time of all, time to deal with all the ghosts
Of depression’s mental mockery – they cry cries only you can hear
And only you can feel them pressing ever near.
Take one minute of one day to just sit still and be,
And maybe in that minute you’ll be able to sit and see
That there are those who love you, who wish you all the best,
Whose love is ever shining, outshining all the rest.
Take the time to gather thoughts, make sure your mind hold fast
To the good things, however few they be, because it’s these things that must last
When all else fails and Ch
:iconMagicalJoey:MagicalJoey
:iconmagicaljoey:MagicalJoey 33 26
Literature
6 Difficult Truths of being a Writer / Artist
6 Difficult Truths of being a Writer / Artist
Anybody Can Write a Novel
Chapter 10 “Publishing and the Writing Life” – Section 1“Difficult Truths”
With Links to Supplementary Material
Choosing to be a writer has been one of the best decisions of my life; the craft fills me with a sense of purpose, and is honestly the most fun vocation that I could ever hope to do. I am tremendously fortunate to be at a place and time where doing something like this is even possible, and I would never pretend otherwise. However, every path is filled with its share of difficulties, challenges, and hard truths, and I hope that with today's article I can provide some insight for those who are thinking of becoming writers, provide encouragement for those facing these problems, or even just help provide insight into some of the challenges of t
:iconJosephBlakeParker:JosephBlakeParker
:iconjosephblakeparker:JosephBlakeParker 284 104
Literature
frog's swamp.
alone,
the sun's amber breath
weaves, hot, through
thicket and mire.
beside
the cypress branch
he croaks, flaccid
and pale.
above,
wasted and expiring,
gnats glide gently –
dinner.
:iconbrennenxr:brennenxr
:iconbrennenxr:brennenxr 42 27
Literature
compass
n
o
matter
where my 
heart does haunt
t
o
you

i
t
will
al wa ys
p  o  i  n  t
:iconthemaninroomfive:themaninroomfive
:iconthemaninroomfive:themaninroomfive 89 64
Mature content
The Soul Lives in a Shattered Eye Socket :iconsadifer:Sadifer 56 36
Literature
Deciduous
All the glory of Summer
Has snapped
Like an aorta unplugged
And blood bleeds over
Everything as the sun
Drowns faster and faster
And the woods are Blood-tipped
Pikes.
:iconcaerulex:caerulex
:iconcaerulex:caerulex 55 17
Literature
Character Themes Template
How to use this template:
This template is not designed to tell you a character’s hair colour, eye colour, shoe size, or how they like their eggs. It is for the process of applying the core themes and elements of your narrative to your character's development, and visa versa. Not all fields need to be filled in for every character. Use your own discretion to determine which ones are relevant. You may find that you do not have all the answers at the beginning, but they fall in place as you further develop your story.
The examples given are very basic responses, and are just there to give you an idea of what kind of content you can include. Ideally you would have multiple aspects for each field.
Core Relationships and Nature of the relationship:
Mother - strong single-parent to child bond.
Overall theme created by these relationships:
importance of family ties
Core char
:iconC-A-Harland:C-A-Harland
:iconc-a-harland:C-A-Harland 181 30
Literature
Hunger
Exploring you is a study
in duality—
I walk the steps of your spine
& when I reach either end
anything could be waiting.
You exist in too many forms
for one body to hold
& I want them all.
I stick myself to your flesh
& the constant bones,
I want to possess everything—
the marrow of you
the violin bow of your clavicle
the sternum
the femur
& phalanges.
What already possesses me.
I am greedy & want to eat
every piece of you—
I want you to devour me
& leave me picked clean.
You’ve caught me like
a stray animal—
I am wild & an affront
I am tamed & pliant.
I am my own switching poles
& my mind complements
your cyclical shifts.
Splay your hands under
the corners of my ribs—
underneath the cells are
all crying out for you.
Put your fingers in my
mouth & feel the
heartbeat of my hunger.
Need is the ugliest word
but everything I am
is clinging—
grappling to you
& trying to claw inside.
I need to know
your changes don’t enlist
your emotions
but wh
:iconschriftsteller:schriftsteller
:iconschriftsteller:schriftsteller 68 15
Literature
the dissection of matricide
the first thing you have to learn is how
if you pull and mold your nose with
your fingers, it will shape the cartilage
in slopes and thin streams to allow
the slimy species of  scaly fish
to reproduce and (meiosis)
in the paper thin skin that separates
a chapter from a novel
people do not smell like roses when
they wake up and they don’t keep
their fingernails clipped the way
you do - instead they wake up with
the leftover taste of rum rolling around
in their mouth, forgetting
that they called you at three in the
morning to wonder why you
never kissed them back that one time,
and how you got out of that
ticket when a cop pulled you over for
speeding because your tears
were never sad, they were rubber
burning on the streets, the cacophony
of nebulous bathroom tile sobs;
projectile vomit;
eleven-hundred pixels and miles per
hour and you still can’t fly
the second thing you have to learn
is that you must wear your
culture like a badge until he peels
your skin away like th
:iconA-Lovely-Anxiety:A-Lovely-Anxiety
:icona-lovely-anxiety:A-Lovely-Anxiety 90 36
Literature
n.i.
in the mornings i wake
like faded candlelight -
soft and unsure, blown by the wind
from the open window because
the heat resides within the bedframe and the
monochrome moments.
in the mornings i pray for lights-out
and an empty sink to share
my dreams with before
morning becomes day
and day becomes lonely in the flash
of the sunlight seeping
'round the blackout curtains.
some days i want to sleep forever
and only wake when
everyone is comatose within
their dreams; i want to be the ghost
that causes chills in the night
so i can say i made others
feel something
(because i feel so much i've gone
half-numb).
some days i wish i could
speak ten languages -
maybe then i could stop the st
stutter in my breast
and the hitching in my heart
at the thought of
everything --
maybe learning ten tongues
would let me learn to whisper in the night
about how my dreams haunt me
and i, them - i am
my own bogeyman
and i think i've missed a breath
or three trying to figure out what
it means.
when nigh
:iconKhaimin:Khaimin
:iconkhaimin:Khaimin 78 39
Mature content
You're Pretty, But Your Band Sucks :iconjoufancyhuh:joufancyhuh 85 50
Literature
Light
Light pooled in the floes of her flesh
the warm tone of polluted amber
it ran down the window,
the stream broken in places by silhouettes
and other such distractions
it spilled, soundless
and flooded silken sheets
setting adrift the skin and breath and whispers of her
Machiavellian schemes
to steal away into the polluted dark
her sighs overflowed, sonorous
pouring into the amber and black
the constellations dotted along her
disrupted in places by the shadows of trees
and other such poetry
:icondangerousmachination:dangerousmachination
:icondangerousmachination:dangerousmachination 65 30
Literature
Fallow
When I was a little girl, we lived in a house with a nectarine tree. My father tended to it faithfully, watering it and pruning away the dead wood and the branches that would grow too heavy with time, sealing the trimmed edges with care. Each spring, it bore a can-can line of frilly, fragrant petticoat blossoms, cast away wantonly beneath the carnal attentions of buzzing cyprian bees. Each summer, it groaned beneath the weight of fruit, ripening in heavy round golden bellies, basking in the honeyed California sunlight, serene and assured in its fecundity. For a glorious few weeks, we would eat nectarines all day long, in as many creative applications as we could think of, canning the excess for a taste of summer in the fallow months to come.
One spring, the tree dropped every one of its leaves, instead flowering in a veritable nova of blooms… somehow, it sensed the end of its long, slow life, and in one last tremendous effort, it sank all of its energies into posterity, producing
:iconcopper9lives:copper9lives
:iconcopper9lives:copper9lives 75 72

Random from Accepted DD Suggestions

A Dwarf Planet :iconstreincorp:streincorp 325 77
Literature
Sometimes You Don't Have to Change the World
Ares is not what I imagined her to be. The great man of myth, muscular and imposing, shining in his armour, with crested helmet and mighty spear, does not stand before me. Instead I face a young woman, hardly more than a girl. She is soft and delicate, with eyes so large they will soak up the world, and skin like spun glass, that glitters in the darkness. A warm glow radiates from within her, not quite visible, but strong enough for me to feel the heat on my face.
The sound of traffic wafts up to us from the street far below. Heavy clouds block out the night sky, reflecting back the poisonous orange of streetlamps and office blocks. The rooftop is high above it all, and we are invisible. That’s why I chose it, to be alone. The last thing I expected was a visitor, proclaiming to be a god.
“Ares?” I scoff, looking her over with something I imagine to be petulance. If not for the fact that she was so decidedly un-human, and that she had materialised on the rooftop with n
:iconC-A-Harland:C-A-Harland
:iconc-a-harland:C-A-Harland 221 85
Literature
Light Years
I
Time is a human construct ably abetted by the sky, the stars. We looked at the sky and decided to delineate day and night, to make them into two halves, when in fact they were just fine whole.
Prehistory – our prehistory – we were overwhelmed by the sky. Cave paintings and inscriptions are a myriad of hypothetical disasters, stars falling, bursting, chelating. For we saw the Milky Way in all its wonder, all white dust, blue light and rosy curls, a solid mass hanging heavy in the sky.
II
A girl has prehistory as well. Before she is born, before she is even the star twinkling in her mother’s eye, her parents meet. They fall in love because the stars deem them compatible. The mother, an Aquarius, full of intellect and dreams. The father, a Taurus, rooted so firmly in the ground that he has enough foundation to lift the world. Both are fixed signs, revolving around one another, becoming the binary.
III
The Kalahari have a myth: deep in the desert, a
:iconHalatia:Halatia
:iconhalatia:Halatia 74 27
Spinning Fire and Hanging Ice :iconhull612:hull612 479 37
Literature
to everything there is a season
I.
as a flower or a man,
i shall burst,
and scatter.
as a corpse, i shall
peel away, and
return to the earth,
the air. i'll be in
your lungs yet.
II.
look, it’s not that i’m not
a little bit charmed
by the concentric circles
of existence, and the love,
the bitter, bright and
stinking
love.
it’s not that i don’t like
carrying this body that is a miracle,
a miracle in the sum of its parts.
kahlo got it, she knew what
she was talking about –
but i won’t put words
in a dead woman’s mouth.
and the hot sweat of it here,
the pain, the fuck and the sour wine
of it here,
it isn’t really chaining me
down. i’m thinking of
floating away.
III.
did i ever tell you
i’d like to die on my back,
looking at the sky?
in one of those faraway places
i saw from the car as a child, the top of a hill
seen from a distance; someone else’s farm,
someone else’s land. someone else’s emptiness,
a thin line of grass between
dirt and the inf
:iconMeggie272:Meggie272
:iconmeggie272:Meggie272 92 46
Literature
Cancer
The plane wades 
through cotton corn
seeded by vapour 
trails - these clouds swell
as white tumours
gorged by rain.
Like brain scans,
earthly and ghostly 
on a death canvas 
lit by fluorescent finalities. 
:iconjulietcaesar:julietcaesar
:iconjulietcaesar:julietcaesar 76 32
Mature content
a snapshot of the world :iconsuccesswithhonor:successwithhonor 117 40
Literature
Breaking
One day, you will open the cupboard
to find a wine glass or some Tupperware
and the world will, without warning
or alarm, roll off the edge of the shelf
and coming crashing down.
The oceans will splash onto the linoleum,
onto the rug. All the dust in all the deserts
will rain down onto the couch and coffee table,
the hills will crumble, the mountains will break,
all the windows in all the cities will shatter
and fall, a thousand dangerous miles of glass
glittering on your kitchen floor.
Everything will hush.
Exhale the breath you are holding,
and go look for a dust pan, for a broom.
:iconGabrielGadfly:GabrielGadfly
:icongabrielgadfly:GabrielGadfly 162 27
Literature
I.
My bones were glass blown:
Crafted to curve lowly -
(un)beautifully - furling like
a fetus,
inchoate.
Imagine me transmuted, bursting through
desquamated skin. Picture my
clay-molded contours liquified
and awakened, shifted:
Incognito.
But I am unseasoned - grape-shelled,
guileless. Esotericism is overflowing
in my veins:
I click
shut.
This path is as smudged as
its traveler (skidding yet
never slowed), clotted
with mud:
Defiled.
Watch my fingers splay, breaking
from my tendons to
grasp tangible air
and touch
nothing.
You can neither scorch nor
whittle me into
nail-sized hopelessness, only
make me
obsolete.
Steeled, my jaw is set -
diffident, not shattered.
Flawed, definitelymaybenot
godlike: Merely
I.
:iconbowie-loon123:bowie-loon123
:iconbowie-loon123:bowie-loon123 201 46
Literature
Dear Parents:
Strike the soft skin of your children; leave marks.
   Go on: show them how hard they must become
      to be like you.
Mold them to be mindless: coach them to react
   with fists; make them believe that words have
      little worth.
Shape them into an almighty monster: modern man.
Destroy their purity and imagination by damning them
   with absurd words of a god who previous men
      imagined.
Teach children to follow a leader, and to not ever
   break the circle they belong to, so society never
      moves forward.
Above all: train them to question love, even your own.
:iconFuzzyHoser:FuzzyHoser
:iconfuzzyhoser:FuzzyHoser 269 213
Scary Clown :icontampasvt:TampaSVT 138 9
Literature
Birth Marked
Grandpa used to tell stories
about the night I was born,
said a lost sparrow with cockeyed feathers
hopped across my right shoulder
and left its mark.
Shifting the sheaf of hair
mom refused to cut short
and craning my neck,
I could just see the cluster
of sharp-edged W's etched like tattoos 
across the scalloped scoop of my bones.
In summer heat waves,
I learned to weave my dark tangles into braids
and let the claw strokes breathe,
the thin straps of feather-print shirts
pushed out of the way.
On those days,
Grandpa claimed I could lift my arms, wing-like,
and fly myself into something new.
Today,
though the sun is high
and summer nears again,
Grandpa is gone
and I am weighted by dark moods
and black mascara.
Standing at his graveside,
I tell him stories about the parts of him I miss
and the parts of me I hate
but cannot change;
the parts I was born into.
A phantom breeze clutches
the fresh bob of my wayward hair
and for a moment,
I can feel his work-calloused fingers
br
:iconbetwixtthepages:betwixtthepages
:iconbetwixtthepages:betwixtthepages 180 97
Mature content
here, after death :iconignotism:ignotism 87 103
Mature content
Hometown Glory :iconsense-and-stupidity:sense-and-stupidity 45 13

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Mature content
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o r g a n I C :iconpsycheanamnesis:PsycheAnamnesis 78 32
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Random from Lovely Words

Literature
Day 16
days ahead promise nothing but storms
for the paper thin, and I empathize
for this heart also knows pain.
:iconMedoriko:Medoriko
:iconmedoriko:Medoriko 10 10
Literature
day eighty-four.
there was
a frequency in the air that sizzled the way telephone wires do
when i picked up the electric buzz your body generated
next to mine.
swam in it for awhile;
curiously mistook the hub of electrolytes
dancing ionized glory on the surface of your skin for something
far less superior, or more.
and i swear,
i swear our continuance shifted.
i swear that the wonder of wavelengths radiating from the base
of your throat rendered itself the course of grace.
dawn frowned upon day like it wasn’t supposed to be there,
just yet. night crawled under the covers
of starlit daze, and all the while;
you just cracked and popped in time-strewn intervals,
dimly, vaguely:
here
and there, here and there.
:iconsimilar-singularity:similar-singularity
:iconsimilar-singularity:similar-singularity 23 11
Literature
Day 5
the dawn drips vibrant reds
and golds across the morning;
a skyward canvas
:iconMedoriko:Medoriko
:iconmedoriko:Medoriko 23 11
Literature
Frozen Inkwell
In the barren sky,
There hangs a sun -
A sickly yellow lamp;
In the empty wood,
There runs a brook
Through old leaves
Slick and damp.
In the withered air,
There floats a scent
Of earth and ice and calm;
From the boney trees,
There rings just once
A cardinal's lonely song.
In my tired hands,
There hangs a pen
Wondering what to say;
The open book
Upon my lap
Lies blank, day after day.
I long for spring
And southern winds
To soften up this ground;
I need a spring,
A well of ink
Unfrozen and unbound.
:iconEmily-Byrd:Emily-Byrd
:iconemily-byrd:Emily-Byrd 16 5
Literature
Wasteland
Wild howls from wild dogs
Frozen crystals cut my feet
Northern gales cut the air
Out here where sky and wasteland meet
A frozen lake both fierce and fair
Have trapped the moon beneath the deep
It's locked and lost in icy fog
Out here where sky and wasteland meet.
Here I am on the edge of night
No stars to count, no wish to make
Bleak and raw, the shadows dance
On a marble moon beneath a lake
And all across the dim expanse,
A wasteland's cold, a bone-sore ache
No hope to soothe a tired plight
Just a marble moon beneath a lake.
:iconEmily-Byrd:Emily-Byrd
:iconemily-byrd:Emily-Byrd 9 4
Literature
from here to christian apology
in the end i break my teeth on the cyanide almond.
the capacity for evil is trivial and irreducible.
it is a rock in the bloodstream,
it tumbles in the purifier and never gets out.
no you can't wash this out. you can scrub & scratch yourself
             into a corner through little transgressions.
they say loitering on the edge heightens one's senses
to things like pastel bricks of scarfwork
    & liquor store workers who remember your name.
they say hanging up on scam calls will
            cost you an earthquake. is this an earthquake?
what little love there is
slinks gently like a beanstalk  
                     
              wilting on the steel fence.
no you can't wash this out. some of us wanted the jungle
on our terms,
          and that was the mistake.
you play fair or never at all.
:iconghostinafog:ghostinafog
:iconghostinafog:ghostinafog 25 8
Literature
minus three celcius, one hundred percent humidity
tonight i ride through frozen fog again; ears, nose and cheeks shining in the cold.
i can feel the fog thaw as it touches my face and enters my nose. the smell is crisp
and wet at the same time and i feel submerged...no...immersed in this night.
the cars that pass me, fleeting visitors to this nebula i pedal through
as slowly as possible.
liminal time,
rooted and weightless;
Mother's breast.
:iconhaijinik:haijinik
:iconhaijinik:haijinik 5 9
Literature
sudden collapse of the integers
the day becomes an hour
becomes a pomegranate moon, dangling on
before and after little oceans, the imperfect domain
of memory; vivid colored birds
singing Sunday roars of time (and a time after)
and the future rises hushed
over the edges of a mountain- it was there
before we knew it
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 65 32
Literature
Winter
In winter,
mother nature hides her angular autumn nakedness
in a soft blanket of snow.
We are less discreet;
We splash our doings
upon her canvas,
to be erased
only by the wildest snow-storm.
In winter,
it is easier to walk where others have gone before;
it is easier for skis
to follow snowmobiles
than to forge their own way.
Like animals,
our tracks reveal
the things we've turned to look at,
while the paths we clear
lay bare our intentions.
One front door left adrift,
another shoveled well for guests, while
across the street a way is made
directly from one neighbor's door to another.
The dark comes early,
and our windows broadcast out
into the night.
In winter,
time piles up
like snow at the edge of a parking lot;
footsteps walking side by side
may be separated by hours -
and in such a way you may
walk with yourself.  With
each snowfall the winter starts anew,
yet the winter that our bones know
is dimpled by ancestral feet.
Water is life,
and snow and ice
are life made solid -
le
:iconJessaMar:JessaMar
:iconjessamar:JessaMar 4 3
Literature
portrait of rosalie
my grandmother devours
photo albums
like Tolstoy novels,
mémoire aprés mémoire aprés
mémoire.
she tells me the same story
about her first job
without a car
five times over,
looking away
to another
world,
black & white to me,
but full-color to her.
alzheimer's is a language.
like french, it is
just another part of her.
she does not remember
conversations from a week ago
or to turn over laundry,
but she remembers
bus rides in the south, pre-1964,
white weddings in
grey cathedrals
that are shopping malls now.
i have learned to translate
her repetition,
the ways she can tell
the same memory
again and again
like it is the first time.
for this, too,
is language:
the new inflections in her voice,
new details,
the tears that frequent
her glassy eyes
like uninvited guests
she lets in anyway
my grandmother's
alzheimer's
is a neologist,
changes the way
we communicate
now.
trauma is passed
through generations
like hand-me-down clothes.
c'est héréditaire.
my grand
:iconignotism:ignotism
:iconignotism:ignotism 110 41
Literature
of 'soldiers' and 'mirror eggs'
a few bread slices,
cut in four strips, just toasted;
ze zijn 'soldaten'.
slices of bacon,
well browned, but not quite crispy;
dit is het spek, hoor.
eggs fried, but unturned,
edges laced in bacon fat;
de 'spiegeleieren'.
breakfast, of ontbijt:
no matter the language,
what it says is love.
:iconhaijinik:haijinik
:iconhaijinik:haijinik 2 4
Literature
Riversmell
Ancient water crests
in sunlight, every ripple
flashing silver. The river
smells like soil, sunscreen
and change; like smooth
stones and tendrils
of new life growing
against a current gurgling
forgotten tongues. Empty
mussel shells butterfly
the shore; thunder vibrates
in the distance. And when
the rain comes, dipping
its millions of tiny toes
into the surge, the river
rises to meet its brethren,
water drinking water,
as the dirt renews itself
and the trees let loose their leaves.
:iconSilverInkblot:SilverInkblot
:iconsilverinkblot:SilverInkblot 21 13
Literature
Medium Dark
i love you
and the sadness
you call something else,
how you wear life
like an old coat,
three of its buttons
sewn back on
and i love you
like i take my coffee
medium dark
and strong as you
sugar kinked, knotted
as your hair
in my hands
wear me to sleep
my hand atop
your hill of hips,
you wear me close
both whole and broken,
three of my buttons
sewn back on
:iconBlackBowfin:BlackBowfin
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 45 18
Literature
This Side of the Clouds
there is soil
that will never produce flowers,
rain that chokes
more than it quenches,
and some stones, unsatisfied
with being near-impenetrable,
still opt to wage
slow crystallized war
beating back the plague of man
for we are willful, but empty,
a collected misdirection
that lost so much more
than just its way,
our mineral eyes may be diamonds
but the setting is loose
and their cut has no character
merely fluid, taking the shape
of situation and its spoils
we're dead as an uncelebrated christ
dead like old grain in the silo
vermin crawled, rot riddled
awaiting a further processing
we must so richly deserve,
and a lick of salt and bite of lime
chase the delusion down the rathole,
and its unproductive rubbery chew
may make you think
there's peyote in this shit
for there is a savior dancing
atop wires of various tensions,
one named death
who, himself, died years ago
sank into the same human soup
we're all being digested into,
his hell is not a fire nor a place
not hands holding you to f
:iconBlackBowfin:BlackBowfin
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 69 39
Literature
Tomorrow
red waves of sunrise
between blues, dawn repaints us
shadows to songbirds
:iconBlackBowfin:BlackBowfin
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 13 12

A thing DA just did: www.deviantart.com/journal/Dev… 

100%
33 deviants said Thoughts?
I've been so busy I didn't even realize I was published again until I'd gone to catch up on my new favorite online mag. :lol: Here's a link to the piece, if you're interested: No.

I've also submitted to Cahoodaloodaling's Issue 23: Up Yours! which is all about what makes us angry. And heaven knows there's enough to be angry about these days. Also considering trying my hand again at Up the Staircase Quarterly. The rejection notice I got last time was very encouraging, if such a thing can be said of rejection notices. 

As for the Wix acquisition:

This comment from nervene helps clear up why a partnership with a do-it-yourself site service can be beneficial to the technology portion of DA. I'm still not entirely sure how it will all suss out for the community, but we'll just have to see on that. 

I'm waiting for a reply from staff regarding search protections. I know they're busy, but hopefully someone clears that up as it is my personal concern about the change. 

To clarify - I'm not leaving DA. Even if search protections change, I'll just stop sharing work here and focus on commenting and interacting in other ways instead. Who knows, maybe I'll become a fanfic writer and finally *actually* get popular. ;) 

:heart: Lili

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:iconkreepingspawn:
KreepingSpawn Featured By Owner Mar 5, 2017  Professional Digital Artist
Also, a belated but heartfelt thanks for having my back in the forums.  ;} :hug:
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:iconpennedinwhite:
PennedinWhite Featured By Owner Feb 11, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
:heart:
:hug:

Thanks for the love, dear!
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:iconandorada:
Andorada Featured By Owner Feb 11, 2017
:iconhrtplz:
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:icongiusynuno:
giusynuno Featured By Owner Jan 25, 2017  Hobbyist Artisan Crafter
I'm so sorry this comes so late, but Thank you so much for faving! It means the world to me:heart:

I've been away due to office being crazy and I totally missed the start of DD suggestion drive /(O__O)\ I hope I can find time to participate this time, too :D
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:iconhaijinik:
haijinik Featured By Owner Jan 16, 2017  Student Writer
:nod:
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