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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
December 10, 2012
Roses by *AlloenDreams Suggester Writes: Desperately sad yet brimming with hope, the imagery is superb and the message a vitally important one.
Featured by BeccaJS
Suggested by LadyofGaerdon
Literature Text
You love too much, I am told by a man with a briar heart, thorny sinews and collapsed ventricles bearing down on him, hardly beating in his tight chest. He looks at me with flat, slate eyes, chipping and eroding. His hands are dark with cigarette burns and rough with calluses; I feel them on my shoulders as he looks down at me, face collapsing in at his eyes like a dead man's.
For the first time, I realize he is dead. His briar heart dried up when winter killed his rose; my father, he is all thorns.
He squeezes my shoulders, too tight. You look like your mother, you know, he whispers, eyes shifting to the garden, to the yellow rose I planted for her. It is a rambler, sending shoots to the sky that sink back down. We never gave it a trellis. I loved her too much. And there are tears in his eyes, wet, heavy things that slip down his cheeks and on to the grass below us.
I don't know what to say, so I think of the rose, of her. I think that I'd like to send this year's flowers out to sea, so the petals can sink in the ocean and settle over her eyelids, wherever she is. And I'm crying, too, because my mother is in pieces, in the ocean, and my father is every bit as dead as she is.
I did, too, and I smile a little, bat away my tears with tight fists. But I don't regret it –I love everyone as much as I love her, instead. She'd like that. She always told me I had a big heart, and that I should share it. I smile more, because I remember telling my mother once. She had just hugged me; we both knew I would get hurt. I love everyone –everyone I'll ever meet, I want to give a piece of myself to. Whether it is physical or just something inside me that no one can see; I want people to know they are loved.
He drops his hands, looks at me, and wipes his eyes. You're going to get hurt.
Yeah, I am. Mom told me. I'm okay with that.
I hug him quickly, then pull away. I walk over to the rose, dig my thumbnail into the stem just below a blossom, and twist until the flower comes off into my hand. My father looks at me, lights a cigarette, then puts it out under his foot when he sees me coming back.
I tell him to hold out his hands, and he does. I place the blossom into his palms. She loves you and I do, too.
For the first time, I realize he is dead. His briar heart dried up when winter killed his rose; my father, he is all thorns.
He squeezes my shoulders, too tight. You look like your mother, you know, he whispers, eyes shifting to the garden, to the yellow rose I planted for her. It is a rambler, sending shoots to the sky that sink back down. We never gave it a trellis. I loved her too much. And there are tears in his eyes, wet, heavy things that slip down his cheeks and on to the grass below us.
I don't know what to say, so I think of the rose, of her. I think that I'd like to send this year's flowers out to sea, so the petals can sink in the ocean and settle over her eyelids, wherever she is. And I'm crying, too, because my mother is in pieces, in the ocean, and my father is every bit as dead as she is.
I did, too, and I smile a little, bat away my tears with tight fists. But I don't regret it –I love everyone as much as I love her, instead. She'd like that. She always told me I had a big heart, and that I should share it. I smile more, because I remember telling my mother once. She had just hugged me; we both knew I would get hurt. I love everyone –everyone I'll ever meet, I want to give a piece of myself to. Whether it is physical or just something inside me that no one can see; I want people to know they are loved.
He drops his hands, looks at me, and wipes his eyes. You're going to get hurt.
Yeah, I am. Mom told me. I'm okay with that.
I hug him quickly, then pull away. I walk over to the rose, dig my thumbnail into the stem just below a blossom, and twist until the flower comes off into my hand. My father looks at me, lights a cigarette, then puts it out under his foot when he sees me coming back.
I tell him to hold out his hands, and he does. I place the blossom into his palms. She loves you and I do, too.
Literature
Waiting
We are still waiting for the thunder from the distant stars,
The echo of mortality,
the whispers of a storm, half-remembered,
in sepia-coloured hallways in buildings that smell like books.
Time gets slow in waiting,
ghosts are formed from the wanting,
taking shape in the spaces where sunlight,
or moonlight doesn't touch.
The stars shake from the vibration,
and the ghosts shimmer in anticipation,
but we can't hear your voice in the dead of the night.
Literature
relearning
i. stardust scatters with the
direction of my pupils –
maybe secretly i am an
astrology teacher, waiting
for a sign to wink
happily at me.
ii. excuse the rambling
nature of forgotten question
marks, but tell me:
would you like to be the
object of handwritten clichés
would you like to whisper
secrets in my palm
and would you
like to be the possibility
iii. air brushes against my
skin like the torn petals
of a flower still standing.
[ hold your head up high, honey,
and tell tomorrow to wait just
a while,
iv. so you can figure out
the difference between
patience and having all the
Literature
Fire and Water
It was raining in Lancaster on September 3rd 1555, and Jane Ask loved the earthy smell that it coaxed out of the soil.
She wiped away the sheen of rainwater from her forehead with the back of her hand and set her small basket of nettles down by the front door. Later she would dry out the leaves and reduce them to a powder; the substance worked wonders on small wounds which refused to stop bleeding.
Jane had always been something of an herbalist. Growing up with only a father, and two older brothers from his first marriage, she had spent the majority of her childhood outdoors. Now practically a spinster at the age of twenty-two, she knew the
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Comments65
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Oh dear god, I wish I could write like this. This is what I strive for, the type of writing that takes your breath away. This is gorgeous, and I hope you realize just how talented you are.