camelopardalisinblue

Dawni

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Spooktober

October 1: "Midnight" rat-tober; floor slippery with wet blood of berries-- it's midnight: mischief's afoot October 2: "Into Darkness" --art journal page October 3:

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530 deviations

Literature

riding the wave of a tilde

English was my strength, not yours-- you fumbled your clauses and paused, pen poised, ink drippings flowing instead of words floundering on the sea of white and I would dive in, toss apostrophes like flotation aids, pull sentences (their syllables and structures gasping for breath) into line between the flags. I was always the one who crafted prose into snorkels and air tanks, while you provided me the raw materials, you were the hull; you were *my* hull, but where I thought you held equations and answers-- a surfboard, an ocean buoy balanced on the palm of your outstretched hand-- there was only an emptiness, swelling, and the rip that tugged you, silently tumbled you over, and back again under, tossed you deeper and further than my small love could carry. I never could swim, but vocabulary and punctuation wove me a raft. Now, like a slack-jawed fish, riding the wave of a tilde, I gape, mute; in the pages of your story, I am torn away, an afterword, an unnecessary post-script

Featured

262 deviations

Photography

94 deviations

Poetry on Photographs

2 deviations

Literature

Spooktober

October 1: "Midnight" rat-tober; floor slippery with wet blood of berries-- it's midnight: mischief's afoot October 2: "Into Darkness" --art journal page October 3:

Writing

509 deviations

Crafts

53 deviations

Digital Art

5 deviations

Literature

Birthday

Forgiveness came easy 'til the arsenic sale: enjoy your cake, dad.

Art Therapy

5 deviations

Literature

Roses and Coffee

Masarm takes his coffee black like the collar of his favourite shirt and the shadow of childhood; Sally tempers the tartness of taste with salt and sugar-crusted petals of roses in her cup. When he's angry, Masarm burns fiercely, a brooding that bites only himself, and Sally, when she's angry, spits acid and flings plates that shatter over his head. Still, somehow it's always Masarm who sends flowers; Masarm who swallows down the bitterness.

NaPoWriMo 2015 Short Term Folder

29 deviations

Literature

your teeth leave different scars

what they didn't tell me-- the amnesiac is 61.8% water & on watching the night close its eyes on you, I only know beauty; maybe Anne Sexton was on to something & for the woman shamed, arise and breathe. Seabones with taciturn eyes after we lost him: mermaid thirst for cruelest love. Your virginity is like an envelope, a lover's observations on post-it notes, cupping rice always, and always.

Daily Deviations

6 deviations

Scraps

9 deviations

riding the wave of a tilde by camelopardalisinblue, literature

Literature

riding the wave of a tilde

a dream of striplings by camelopardalisinblue, literature

Literature

a dream of striplings

stripped back, raw; the bark peeling, scarred knots and whorls so deeply etched i run out of layers before they are gone; above, a final cluster of leaves shiver where they grasp; a spindly twig, a withering branch, a goodbye that goes unnoticed until too late; the wind blows again, a heavy gust, and remnants of the last fruit, drop-- its seeds spill across concrete, split and shatter; scatter over shallow soil. stark against this bruised sky, i mourn alone; a barren tree.

recreation by camelopardalisinblue, literature

Literature

recreation

i closed the gates to this [mis]adventure park, nailed boards solidly over three shiny & carefully positioned locks, and lamenting, delivered twin ciphers into the ocean. the third, i carried home. traipsing away, i vowed this was over, but the consequence i kept confined, encased in ice, called my name too loudly. i de-boarded the gates, unlocked the locks, slipped back inside. later, i returned the boards and re-fastened the locks. i gave the key to a passing magpie, then chased it home to my freezer. i dug myself a secret tunnel, and every once in a while, i creep along in the dark. if i must allude to it, i call it my brief sojourn, a l

Green grass and Funeral Blooms by camelopardalisinblue, literature

Literature

Green grass and Funeral Blooms

A woman births a tortoise, all hard shell, and a hare, long life, and steps all softness, and s o s l o w. fast legs, and life in fast-forward. Nobody sees the others’ epitaphs, mother of a child with disability; no money for his care. with disability no money eases. Each writes on the other̵

Artistry by camelopardalisinblue, literature

Literature

Artistry

It was almost perfect. One or two more strokes were all that it would take, and as he finished preparing, the young King sighed with contentment and fatigue. He'd been at it for almost 12 hours this time, and his muscles were straining in protest, but he knew in his bones that it was worth it. Art, after all, was a skill that took time to master, and the King was determined to cultivate it in himself until he was the best in all the lands. He stretched, his bones crackling along his spine and arms, then grasped the picture box provided by his Mage. "Hold still," he admonished his squirming models before giving the box its appropriate command

Clockwork Bond by camelopardalisinblue, literature

Literature

Clockwork Bond

The large silver serving platter functioned nicely as a makeshift shield. She was wielding it thoughtfully, a rolling pin in the other hand as she imagined herself fighting off hordes of villainous gizmos, when Cook re-entered the room. "Isabelle!" The paunch woman, voice raised over the hissing steam and pounding pistons of the kitchen, was not happy. "Get on with your work, girl." The stern admonishment loosened Isabelle's grip, and the platter crashed to the floor, spinning across its expanse like a giant coin. The rolling pin followed, slipping into the shadows and knocking into a tiny figure that quickly moved away. Isabelle flushed and

Makki by camelopardalisinblue, literature

Literature

Makki

In a house across town, an old man sits on the sofa. He is on leave, and though he used to love his job, this time, he hasn't even noticed its absence. The paper bag beside him spills a dark stain across the faded fabric and he doesn't notice that, either. His eyes stare into last week even as the stain grows larger, threatening the trousers he hasn't taken off since Sunday twice gone. Echoes of a german shepherd's bark catch his attention, momentarily, and a smile lights up his face, only to slide away again immediately. The kennel in the corner mocks the man -- a tain in the wood reminds him of the bullet, and the emptiness is a heartbreak

devotion by camelopardalisinblue, literature

Literature

devotion

we don't play board games or date, we simply rest, pressed close, a back arched softly into a stomach, an inverted comma promising compromise, company always, she sleeps early, my head rests, pressed to the pillow; i breathe everything she is, promising compromise, company small prices-- her hair rests, pressed to the sheets, my arms a circle she still misunderstands, the flick of her feet; promising compromise, company in his absence, the most devoted lover; in his presence, the most gracious friend, banished to the edge of the bed; her head still rests, pressed to us, promising compromise, company.

it takes a village by camelopardalisinblue, literature

Literature

it takes a village

hathi struggles, the shaft draws at her skin, swelling with rainwater and sticky with mud. hathi breathes, paddling and scrambling, and nobody says Darwinism, nobody says no. we see only an infant. we don't speak, we just move. hathi tires and we are fist deep, tunneling a new path, an arrow to the jungle. hathi breathes, heaves herself aground, and nobody says anything. we watch her leave.

Cyclone by camelopardalisinblue, literature

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