You never really liked villains before,
never much understood the whole
sympathy-for-the-devil angle.
But as you sit across from her
bent over her cheerios, frowning slightly,
bits of white fluff from her bathrobe
caught in her dark hair like seafoam,
you realize your favorite villain would be
any who had to go against
that. She feels your eyes and looks up,
turning the frown on you,
her mouth a delicate knot just off center.
"Stop, stop," you cry, choked with fellow-feeling
for the imagined opponent,
and your words hang startled in the air,
glowing in the yellow morning sunlight
coming in through the window.
On Not Being Hit by Lightning by SummerRayn, literature
Literature
On Not Being Hit by Lightning
According to the National Weather Bureau, the average person
has a one in ten thousand chance of being hit by lightning.
It is storming, and I go for a walk.
The rain is light and irregular,
flickering on my face, sparking off puddles.
The night sky shatters white with lightning like a china saucer
dropped on a black floor.
The thunder hums in my sternum.
The thunder is lions, bass drums in a canyon, empty barrels
bouncing down staircases.
The thunder is nothing in my mouth it hasn't been
in the pens of a thousand poets.
I am barefoot in the rain puddles.
The grit and gravel on the sidewalk
bite at my soles, but that's all r
Electric and Fully Automated by SummerRayn, literature
Literature
Electric and Fully Automated
It isn't as though the house
is dustier than it has been.
The quality of the laundering has not suffered.
Conditions, she thinks over the rim of her wine glass,
are largely unchanged, except for
a sly smirk when her husband thinks she isn't looking,
and what may be an answering wink
or may be their maid's left optical LED on the fritz.
She doesn't see the appeal, really,
of coy black rubber wheels at the ends of
long chrome legs, of pert metal cones on its chest
like pylons, molded aluminum hairstyle,
sassy chips of color at the ends of articulated steel fingers.
Of course if she didsee the appeal, that is
this would
I often find myself wondering
what my family would think if they ran into me now,
the differences that would stand out to them
from the last time they saw me, a year ago.
I usually stop at the obvious:
purple hair, eyeliner, thirty extra pounds.
I used to hope they'd stumble across me
sometime when I was at my most lost and lonely,
a selfish snapshot wished on them at my lowest.
That would show them, make them understand.
But now, today, I wish they could drive by
right this instant, and see me on the sidewalk,
loaded down with grocery bags
full of fresh fruit and sweet tea,
cradling an armful of giant sunflowers,
in love with
The End of the First Year by SummerRayn, literature
Literature
The End of the First Year
I say that winter is my favorite season
Because I like the feel of heavy blankets over me at night.
But now summer is back again, and the warm, thick air
wraps around me with a comforting, palpable weight.
The warm weather
brings out a certain smell in the apartment stairwell
Not unpleasant. Just sweet and dim and a little musty,
A smell the same smudgy off-white color
Of the light from the wall fixtures.
I might not have noticed it at all if it hadn't been for
The sense memories that flood me
Every time I lock the apartment door behind me on a hot day.
I inhale that heavy, off-white atmosphere
And for a moment I have fal
Once, when you gave in to tears,
(Loud, messy tears with the door closed)
As the first step of the collapse you'd finally stopped fighting,
You discovered, once you'd caught your breath,
That the collapse was no longer necessary.
That kind of sorrow,
Those deep, sodden pits,
The savage, clawing misery that requires all your attention,
Is in many ways easier than the lesser kinds
The weight between your shoulders
That seems like very little until you've carried it for miles,
The subtle chill that you can take as long as it's in shifts,
The unobtrusive little creature that sits calmly in your gut
But bites you now and then
Inspired by Manfred by George Gordon, Lord Byron
The thing about mountainsI speak as one
Who knows mountains, having lived in them all my life
The thing about mountains, I say, is that they do not,
With their beauty, deceive you of their might.
There is no question as to whether a mountain
Is dangerous. It tells you so. And thus
The only ones that confront the mountains are the brave,
And the foolish, and the heartsick,
And the chamois. If I may, I count myself
One of these last. Or if I may not, then let me say also
"And the hunter," since that is what I do. I hunt.
I was hunting on the day I met that madman
Ye
The world, without meaning to, can be so cold.
Tree, flower, earth, stone are beautiful, but with
A heatless beauty, warmed secondhand if at all.
Sun that warms them, fire that warms them,
Cannot be held, cannot be touched.
I find myself in a world full of people
Who dislike being touched.
I accept this.
I stand three paces off, hands behind my back.
I accept, but I do not comprehend. How would it be,
I wonder, to dislike light? To dislike warmth?
People talk to me of personal space,
But the language I speak says "You are dear to me,
You are my friend, let me share with you
The gift of my heat, of my nearness.
Let me hug you,
One of these days we're all going to meet
The way we say we will--
Someday, years from now, when respective national holidays
Converge on one warm three-day weekend.
Some will book plane tickets,
Tweeting from the runways, logging on from the terminals
To post about delays and layovers.
Some will drive all day and through the night,
Staring at the windshield
As they are used to staring at computer screens,
As the GPS ticks through the hours.
And some will walk down the street to the park
And will have already spread the checked cloths on the picnic tables
When the rest of us arrive, bleary-eyed but grinning.
The webcammers will
You never really liked villains before,
never much understood the whole
sympathy-for-the-devil angle.
But as you sit across from her
bent over her cheerios, frowning slightly,
bits of white fluff from her bathrobe
caught in her dark hair like seafoam,
you realize your favorite villain would be
any who had to go against
that. She feels your eyes and looks up,
turning the frown on you,
her mouth a delicate knot just off center.
"Stop, stop," you cry, choked with fellow-feeling
for the imagined opponent,
and your words hang startled in the air,
glowing in the yellow morning sunlight
coming in through the window.
On Not Being Hit by Lightning by SummerRayn, literature
Literature
On Not Being Hit by Lightning
According to the National Weather Bureau, the average person
has a one in ten thousand chance of being hit by lightning.
It is storming, and I go for a walk.
The rain is light and irregular,
flickering on my face, sparking off puddles.
The night sky shatters white with lightning like a china saucer
dropped on a black floor.
The thunder hums in my sternum.
The thunder is lions, bass drums in a canyon, empty barrels
bouncing down staircases.
The thunder is nothing in my mouth it hasn't been
in the pens of a thousand poets.
I am barefoot in the rain puddles.
The grit and gravel on the sidewalk
bite at my soles, but that's all r
Electric and Fully Automated by SummerRayn, literature
Literature
Electric and Fully Automated
It isn't as though the house
is dustier than it has been.
The quality of the laundering has not suffered.
Conditions, she thinks over the rim of her wine glass,
are largely unchanged, except for
a sly smirk when her husband thinks she isn't looking,
and what may be an answering wink
or may be their maid's left optical LED on the fritz.
She doesn't see the appeal, really,
of coy black rubber wheels at the ends of
long chrome legs, of pert metal cones on its chest
like pylons, molded aluminum hairstyle,
sassy chips of color at the ends of articulated steel fingers.
Of course if she didsee the appeal, that is
this would
I often find myself wondering
what my family would think if they ran into me now,
the differences that would stand out to them
from the last time they saw me, a year ago.
I usually stop at the obvious:
purple hair, eyeliner, thirty extra pounds.
I used to hope they'd stumble across me
sometime when I was at my most lost and lonely,
a selfish snapshot wished on them at my lowest.
That would show them, make them understand.
But now, today, I wish they could drive by
right this instant, and see me on the sidewalk,
loaded down with grocery bags
full of fresh fruit and sweet tea,
cradling an armful of giant sunflowers,
in love with
The End of the First Year by SummerRayn, literature
Literature
The End of the First Year
I say that winter is my favorite season
Because I like the feel of heavy blankets over me at night.
But now summer is back again, and the warm, thick air
wraps around me with a comforting, palpable weight.
The warm weather
brings out a certain smell in the apartment stairwell
Not unpleasant. Just sweet and dim and a little musty,
A smell the same smudgy off-white color
Of the light from the wall fixtures.
I might not have noticed it at all if it hadn't been for
The sense memories that flood me
Every time I lock the apartment door behind me on a hot day.
I inhale that heavy, off-white atmosphere
And for a moment I have fal
Once, when you gave in to tears,
(Loud, messy tears with the door closed)
As the first step of the collapse you'd finally stopped fighting,
You discovered, once you'd caught your breath,
That the collapse was no longer necessary.
That kind of sorrow,
Those deep, sodden pits,
The savage, clawing misery that requires all your attention,
Is in many ways easier than the lesser kinds
The weight between your shoulders
That seems like very little until you've carried it for miles,
The subtle chill that you can take as long as it's in shifts,
The unobtrusive little creature that sits calmly in your gut
But bites you now and then
Inspired by Manfred by George Gordon, Lord Byron
The thing about mountainsI speak as one
Who knows mountains, having lived in them all my life
The thing about mountains, I say, is that they do not,
With their beauty, deceive you of their might.
There is no question as to whether a mountain
Is dangerous. It tells you so. And thus
The only ones that confront the mountains are the brave,
And the foolish, and the heartsick,
And the chamois. If I may, I count myself
One of these last. Or if I may not, then let me say also
"And the hunter," since that is what I do. I hunt.
I was hunting on the day I met that madman
Ye
The world, without meaning to, can be so cold.
Tree, flower, earth, stone are beautiful, but with
A heatless beauty, warmed secondhand if at all.
Sun that warms them, fire that warms them,
Cannot be held, cannot be touched.
I find myself in a world full of people
Who dislike being touched.
I accept this.
I stand three paces off, hands behind my back.
I accept, but I do not comprehend. How would it be,
I wonder, to dislike light? To dislike warmth?
People talk to me of personal space,
But the language I speak says "You are dear to me,
You are my friend, let me share with you
The gift of my heat, of my nearness.
Let me hug you,
One of these days we're all going to meet
The way we say we will--
Someday, years from now, when respective national holidays
Converge on one warm three-day weekend.
Some will book plane tickets,
Tweeting from the runways, logging on from the terminals
To post about delays and layovers.
Some will drive all day and through the night,
Staring at the windshield
As they are used to staring at computer screens,
As the GPS ticks through the hours.
And some will walk down the street to the park
And will have already spread the checked cloths on the picnic tables
When the rest of us arrive, bleary-eyed but grinning.
The webcammers will
poetry is the translation
of an emotional or intellectual
concept into words
eeeven if it means breaking off
from grammatical, syntactical,
or (especially) societal conventions.
basically, say what you want
without making it difficult,
confused, or needlessly profound,
because that shit's no good.
Wolf stopped gnawing on his third plate of Lapin Bleu d'Auvergne and pointed at Deer with his fork. "The problem," he said, "is that you've got a bum deal going on with your agent. You're paying him far too much if all he was able to get you was public affection. I mean, there's what-- thirteen million white-tailed deer in the United States alone, right?"
Deer looked down at his glass, which was half-full of some white wine. He was a little unsure whether or not he liked it, as he didn't really know what made wine good or bad or even what type of wine it happened to be. He'd looked
Desmonda of the Cedars Ch 8 by SummerRayn, literature
Literature
Desmonda of the Cedars Ch 8
The city was busy and loud, which for some reason I did not expect. I had not before considered that others would be going about other business while I was being cast into exile. It simultaneously irritated me that it would go unnoticed, and comforted me that I might go unnoticed. But my comfort was short lived; although some of the people we passed as we came to the city kept to their business, many more stared at me, in my fine gown and regal bearing and well-known face, and nudged each other and murmured. Surely, I thought, they could not all have heard what had happened yet, and stared only for the rare treat of seeing the princess out of
Current Residence: Springfield, Missouri, USA Favourite genre of music: Swing, folk rock, contemporary Christian Operating System: Windows Vista Wallpaper of choice: One with Doctor Who on it D: Favourite cartoon character: Ron Stoppable, of Kim Possible. Personal Quote: Your floccinaucinihilipilification of others is an egregious display of pusillanimity. Stoppit nowe.
Favourite Movies
The Phantom of the Opera... also Disney's Beauty and the Beast.
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
Frank Sinatra, for dead singers. For those still alive, Sara Groves. Relient K is also love. <3
Favourite Writers
Alexandre Dumas, Gail Carson Levine, Robert Frost
Favourite Games
Animal Crossing--It'd probably be KotOR, except for all that not-Carth stuff they pad it with.
Favourite Gaming Platform
Nintendo DS
Tools of the Trade
Tilly, my sunshine-yellow Dell laptop! *hugs Tilly*
If you're one of the first ten or so people to comment on this journal, I'll add you to the featured list and include three of my favorite deviations in your gallery! The only catch is that you then have to go make another of these journals yourself, with me in one of the slots.
1. ~fackeltanz (https://www.deviantart.com/fackeltanz) (alsjdfj so many devaintart tabs, so many everything tabs, working my way through slowly so slowly)
2.
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4.
5.
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Sorry if I'm not getting to peoples' messages etc.; been busy/unmotivated but I appreciate every comment and favorite. I'll be back soon/eventually. <3 you all.
Howdy! Just wanted to let you know that I recc'd your Sherlock story, "The Important Bit," in my dA journal (the Sherlock section is near the bottom) and in an LJ post.
Hi there! Don't know if you remember me; it's been over a year since we exchanged messages, but you recommended 'Labyrinth' to me before and I don't know if I ever thanked you for doing that. Just wanted to say I finally found a copy, and I absolutely loved it; it's one of my favorite movies now. Thanks so much again, and hope you're doing well!