this feature and these wonderful works of art, thank you!
The amount of artistic talent here on dA has always amazed me, I feel like it should be a privilege to be able to feature such amazing pieces as these. Therefore, without further ado this Sunday's SpecialsLiterature
True StoryThis is my story. I wrote it. With my own two hands I have crafted this tale, right from my own imagination. I created it from nothing, or rather, from scraps left over from a dictionary. It starts with a guy whose name escapes me. He does something that you wouldn't believe, (or maybe you would. You can be kind of like that sometimes.) Bad things happen, and he loses faith a few times, and just when you think life could never be good again, it is. He doesn't live happily ever after, but the problem he was facing is resolved to your satisfaction. I just wish I could remember the details.
You'd love it; it was just your kind of story. It had all the elements that I knew you'd enjoy, so I couldn't help but think of you the whole time I wrote it. In fact, I may have accidently slipped you in there somewhere. It was tasteful though. You would have liked it.
I won an award for the story. Everyone dusted off their old typewriters for some reason, and sent me a letter of congratulations. It w
FisheyeYour honest words perch upon brash lips,
teetering on thoughtful intentions; a super hero's cape
embroidered with moth holes, gossamered secret identity
shielding the crestfallen heart you disguise as armor,
forgotten about with a forced amnesia
until its lonely beating rips a hole
through your defenses.
I'm your kryptonite and your sunshine
the thing that makes you human, and weak,
and a villain to the unloved,
and my savior.
I'm the have and have-not,
the desired and the disdained
for your every rib aches to feel the pressure of my palms
and the tangle of my fingers witching for your marrow;
your every fiber argues my nearness and my absence,
and your heart murmurs a welcome and a warning.
You retreat from the latter,
because hope was never meant
for someone like you.
I've been wanting to tell you for so long,
your honesty is a lie.
Copyright © 2012 Jen Fowler
All Rights Reserved
is the hush of the ocean,
the glossy paint on your car,
the gleam in your eyes.
It's the ruffle of parchment in the glove compartment
of your susurrating '57 Thunderbird
as we leave the last rumble of brontide behind
on a salt-crushed highway.
Traces of powdered sugar noses
and mint milkshake lips
were cold reminders
of warm nostalgic days
when summer could melt the tarmac
like my bones under your gaze.
Come What MayI like grass.
Simple statement, I know. I'm not usually one for keeping things simple, but when I'm here, and you might be, I feel speaking my mind is a little less cluttered.
It's not like anyone hears me, anyway; muttering away to myself under the trees, bathed in the scent of the new daffodils and the low thrum of the bees. You could call it cliché, but a summer for someone who rarely sees sunlight is a commodity as rare as love almost just as cherished.
A summer with a sprinkle of love, however, is gold. We can eat that peppered steak on the crumbling bench, share a vanilla float in the dusk heat or count the different types of butterflies we find on a lonely backwoods trail that doesn't quite go anywhere but takes us where we want to go nonetheless.
It's always a type of home when I'm with you.
When I could be with you.
The lakes are like mirrors this far around parents don't bring their children on walks this long and we only see people every ten minutes or so;
:thumb283846006: :thumb302234673: :thumb288690574: Traditional Art