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Memories of June Part 2 Soft hands knotted with arthritis patted out the last few wrinkles of the quilt. I watched as she clucked quietly to herself and then fluffed the pillows that were probably as old as I was. I watched as she pushed back the lace curtains yellow with age. They seemed the same parched yellow of her skin. With a huff of satisfaction she turned to face me and gestured about the room with her hands.
"Well, its not the Hilton or Ritz or whatever it is you young people prefer these days, but it will be a place to sleep," she sounded exasperated as if the younger generation had ruined all that was good with life.
"No, grandma, its perfectly fine," I shifted away from the doorway where I thought I could hide myself. "Thank you."
She gave a slow thoughtful nod of her head and studied my face. "The
Memories of June Part 1 She was as feeble as a daisy being tossed about in the wind. I had warned Grandmother to not go outside for a summer storm was brewing on the horizon, but she prattled on, saying that I worried too much. Grandmother insisted she needed to check on her tomatoes and peas, so I reluctantly let her go. Now she tottered down the gravel path that led to her vegetable gardens with the wind whipping her floral skirt about her knees.
Somehow, this was supposed to be my summer getaway. Back home I was miserable and depressed. The ever-growing pressures of my job as a journalist left me cranky and unbearable to be around, but at night I would go home and cry into my pillow. Maybe it was because the reviews of my past couple of articles were not great. The mornings after the articles were published my editor would storm into my cubicle like a raging monste
Danu's Servant -The Messenger The cold water had left her skin feeling raw, but she had to wash it away. Morwen had watched as the mud and blood from the night washed off and mingled in the water. She had done the best she could to scrub her robes clean, tattered as they were, and had left them to dry on the one tree branch that the sun managed to reach. Now she sat with her knees pulled up to her chest on a squat boulder absorbing the warmth from the sun, her skin still pink from the cold bath.
A messenger, the Mother Goddess had said, a messenger would appear to guide her on her journey. She wondered at the nature of this messenger, whether it would be human or spirit. Judging by the sun it was just past noon and this messenger had yet to show up. Morwen took a quick glance around the forest to see if she was still alone. The only other moving creatures were small birds and rodents scavenging for lunch, imperviou
Danu's Servant - The TaskEven with her eyelids closed the sunlight dazzled her sight. Her reluctance to wake was shadowed by the horrors of her journey. Wake up, wake up! The leaves rustled overhead, dancing their joy in the wind. She moved a hand to shelter her face before opening her eyes to the blinding sunlight. Wake up, Wake up! The voices were urgent and pressing. She needed to wake. There was still a river to cross and a Roman army to run from. Her eyes slowly opened to allow them to adjust to the light and she removed her hand, letting her gaze focus on the play of leaves above her. All to suddenly she was aware of the weariness that filled her leaden limbs. She felt weak and tired and hungry, but had not all her fasting to commune with her gods prepared her for this? Her mind strayed to her teacher and back to the grove. The robes, the oaks, the words of invocation, and suddenly his face as his mouth formed into an O and the light in his eyes guttered when his life source stained his rob
Danu's Servant - Prologue She was running blind. Her feet carrying her ever forward into the thick darkness of a lightless night. Rain drops stung her face, branches snared her robes, and roots trapped her feet. But she had to keep running even though her lungs burned. Her hands were held out before her for balance and as an attempt to avoid tree limbs. It didn't always work. A slender limb worked free from her hands and whipped along her cheek. It stung and she felt a warm trickle, but she didn't know if it was blood or just the rain. Ignore it, the voice told her. You must run. You must live.
She thought she could still here screaming, but surely she was too far away. Surely it was just the wind howling past her ears. Her feet carried her onward, rushing through a shallow stream before getting snarled in a tangle of roots. She let out a panicked gasp as she fell forward l
B and L - The Dance The Cock and Feather was unusually crowded with sailors, merchants, pirates, and harlots. The relentless rain drove everyone indoors. Above the din of drunken chatter a tangle of musicians played fast reels that competed with the noise.
Lorelei pushed up the sleeves of her shirt, feeling stifled in the crush of warm bodies. A mug of rum was pushed into her hands as Padraig flashed her a smile. Their recent prize had earned them good money after finding a cache of gold in the brig. She watched after him until the crowd swallowed him and glanced at the eager faces surrounding her. A few of the faces were familiar. They were mostly young boys ghosting after her for any small amount of recognition. One of them dared to touch a sleeve and Lorelei drew away from him, feeling repulsed. Her frown earned her a stuttered apology as the boy's face flushed a bright red. She forced herself fr
.just try not to
that memory, that one
wolf that calls
for the rest
of the pack;
you'll spend all
with them inside
.some people are dead
long before they die -
there's just no burial
for the spirit
gossamer loveyou will love a woman
who uses the word
too often. she will
diagnose dead artists' descents
into madness and laugh
too loudly at jokes
no one understands.
she will braid crowns of
flowers, she will write poems
in constellations, she will
try to walk like a dancer so
no one can hear her
leave. she will be
an ice sculpture, and when
she cries, you'll convince yourself
she's melting, she loves you, you've
changed her, you've
changed; she will wear you
like a comma, like
an incomplete thought,
in her story, and
she will leave you wondering
crooked kissesAn old man sits at a bus stop,
his ragged clothes soaked
through to his creaky bones.
He grips his beggars cup
tightly, but instead of coins it
overflows with rain water.
Passersby pass by without
giving a second glance, brief
cases clenched in swinging
hands, Bluetooth plugged into
their ears. A little girl dressed
in pink polka dots prances
to his side. Her mouth moves
quickly and his takes time to
form words. She giggles,
drops coins into his cup, and
gives him a kiss on the cheek.
He laughs a crooked grin.
CatatoniaShe scrawls life line tallies on her wrists in scars
to mark each year passed
and haunts bars looking for the love of strangers.
she finds malt whiskey and vermouth; strange mouths to kiss
she tips them back the way a lover might tip her chinny chin
She whispers slurs and looks into the abyss of gin.
He inhales death with the smoky kisses of cigarettes
injects life paraphrasing echoes of love with hypodermics to keep
the hypothermia of loneliness back
but it creeps and creeps
a slow paralysis
under the windowsill, rain falling bleak on the pane to drip
into her veins
soft dark over the threshold of the doorway to her soul
writing ink into her shadow, there -
melting behind the lidded stupor stare of dreamless minds
it stirs and wakes,
invisible monsters sleeping in her chest
they bare their teeth and bleed
pain naked in the light of morning
ugly and beautiful in the honesty of strangers unable to turn
from a car crash in the dusk.
walking in darkness
searching for touch.
To the one I forget to loveSunshine girl,
your feet are itchy for the miles
between your sighs
and hunger scratches
at your throat
but you have a smile
that swallows oceans
and your heart
into the Marinia Trench.
this heaviness in you
is a dandelion
coming home to rest
a little more
(or maybe we'd just go broke).
A Daughter Now BegottenIf reason could challenge the knowledge of infinity,
the blindness of justice;
should we not call ourselves Gods...
And Gods are we not, for if justice were truly blind,
it would hold the same fate for rich and poor alike...
Under the celestial heaven that shines above,
the beggar's crying face and the rich man's arrogant gaze...
So of The Creation we are, living in throngs of solitudes....
Each solitude made torturous by the lust for more money,
yet eased by the kindness of strangers and the love of God...
Which power of change is made,
unto glory from a prisoner down trod,
to a man of faith, who helped a dying woman in need till loving eclipse.
A daughter now begotten, of starry eyes and golden sun ray locks...
Cherished by God and adored by both parents,
though mother soon to be with the Creator Almighty,
this daughter grows up knowing the brittleness of mortality...
...As her lips of red rose blossoms,
her heart aches as the mourning moon that hides behind the bosom of clouds...
DeceptionWhat lies behind the porcelain face?
So pale in beauty,
So fair in grace.
What means the painted tears of red?
A true love lost?
Or hurt long bred?
What caused the smile of rosy lips?
A stolen kiss?
Or a tender glimpse?
What shaped the curve of silken cheek
An Italian hand?
Or a peasant meek?
What secrets fill the empty eyes?
A startling truth?
Or a subtle lie?
Behind the mask what will I find?
A face grotesque?
Or beauty undefined?
HomesickI am the river's son,
my arteries flowing turquoise
and turning to rapids
rushing around my frame,
filling me with this sense
of buoyancy, minnows
tickling my sternum.
I am the river's son.
My palms caress each
silty shoreline, every
battered bank and bend,
and these places I know
so well become me
as my fingerprint,
even the bridge above me
inflamed by the afternoon
sun-glow, burning rusty and
the steel blue sky.
I am the river's son;
I bring my home along
like hermit crab,
where I step
I pull water from the earth.
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More