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About Literature / Artist could kill you with her brain.Female/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 10 Years
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I will not cook for you.  It is both
lack of interest an lack of talent because
my Southern mother gave me
strong white teeth
Yes sir no ma’am,
and grandma’s pearls, but not
the family lust for spatulas
and Mix well.
So no,
I will not cook (for lack of trying
I assure you.)
But for you, I will singe fingertips
on dishwasher hot plates and
rinse saucepans and
most likely call for takeout.
The dog will live unwalked if he
is left to my devices.
The tulips from that garden shop
by your parents’ house will never have
the cool, wet courage to kiss up towards sun.
And the sheets on our bed will stay unmade
and wild in knots.
So our dog will be a rolling caricature,
our garden a mass of whatever it has
dreamed itself to be, and our bed
will always keep on hand
the memories of our
bodies and how
we lay just
:iconmscellanea:MsCellanea 3 13
Whom it May Concern
Dear Sir,
I apologize, but today, your
body was les than my own moribund car—smaller
than cylinders and spokes and a rusting hood.
You were smaller than the car before me, sir, particularly the
front right tire.
We met in a compact moment and sir, you
loomed before me and you were all
legs and arms—windmills—and fur the
color my mother would stain her hair.
Your eyes were scorched at the edges with that dark desperate fear-smell and
sir, I left my car stalling on the road to
dive my glass-bone body deep into the
dark dark ports of your eyes
so that my fingers fit into your bark worn fingers and
my legs fit into your spring coil legs—
so that my body grew from your wet
nose down into the warm bush of your tail—but
sir, once I had passed over, your windmills
were limp and eyes open, pressed to asphalt, and
even though I wanted to stop, sir, and
turn, sir, and
hurry hot feet over the sunbathing blacktop to close your eyes with the
cool fingers of a lover, sir, I
:iconmscellanea:MsCellanea 4 11
In Memoriam
Today, I learned how to cling for life to a drowning person.  To a whole group of drowning people, really, that moved in one great herd.  It makes sense, perhaps, to consider that as you lose that slick balance in the ocean, as your feet slip from that thin platform that was shaky-at-best in the first place, you reach out for someone not to be saved, but to know at least that they feel the same way.  That you may look in their eyes and see yourself reflected.  We are all off the same boat, all huddled in one place with our fingers wrung together in knots as the water fills us up, up, up.
The first thing is to bring food.  Pizza, water, granola bars, rolled out on carts and pushed at us.  Here, they say.  This will help.  I feel nauseas and say no.  Within hours the almighty mothers arrive, bearing trays of cookies and cookies and cookies like frankincense in their arms.  
:iconmscellanea:MsCellanea 4 6
How Your Life Will Change
One day, you will see a picture of
you, and your hair will look the same
as it does now, but the remarkable
thing will be that you will be wearing the
same shirt as the Old-You still and silent in
the frame.  But it will not be YOU as of NOW and
the two of you will be separate,
as if passing on the street, you might
spark recognition at an acquaintance face
without a name to complete, exchange
pleasantries, and then pass on to the respective
destinations and lives that, statistically,
perhaps won’t meet again like holy palmers.
:iconmscellanea:MsCellanea 0 5
How to Write About Love
I was 8 pounds born
and the nurse called me,
in red skin, wrinkles, screams,
the beautiful one.
I rode my bicycle
sans-training wheels
through the wide open cul-de-sac
and into a basketball pole.
I failed my first test in Junior year.
I made a cross-country journey
to a new land and
made my first friend
three long years later.
I read Redwall under the monkey bars
and learned about words.
When I moved my hands, the
music moved.
I conducted a band,
I conducted my family,
I wept from the beauty of it all.
I burned brownies and still
cannot cook.
I ate lunch in the bathrooms in
middle school.
My best friend saved me and is now
saving the world.
The clean, orderly scars on my
have turned white in the sun
during hard work, sweaty work that
made me ache, a good ache.
I once pushed my toddler brother
into the deep-end.
I have learned humility.
My pet turtle, Shelly, laid five eggs
and ate them.
I was a slave to retail America, stocking yarn and puff paint.  I sweat
:iconmscellanea:MsCellanea 21 24
Mature content
Of Love and Lust :iconmscellanea:MsCellanea 4 6
The Mohawk Diatribe
Most nights, we were ourselves.  We were the Strangers of the Western World, those playboys that would roost on fence posts and wait and watch for passerby.  We watched for a passing action to follow and trail like vultures hunting something past dead and stumbling.  And The Man would see us there, see the reflections of streetlights tattooed in our eyes, and chase us away out of sight and out of mind.  We ran to run.  Not to get away, but to feel wind, to get out of breath and heave in air with our backs pressed against the ground.
There is nothing expected of you once you have lived to a certain age.  When you’re young, they want you to listen, and when you’re old, they want you to work.  At our age, they know that we don’t do either of these, so they don’t ask much.  They only warn against those hush-hush things that go on behind the doors, things like drugs and sex, but we aren’
:iconmscellanea:MsCellanea 1 7
In Passing
The scariest thing about seeing Myra Banks a few weeks after was that when she looked at me in the face and I looked at her in the eyes, I didn’t recognize her and she didn’t know who I was.  She looked at me with eyes-that-were-not-eyes, more like those globular fishbowls that I would keep betas in on my dresser.  Hers were green, and when they touched up to the skin of my features I knew that she was seeing me and not seeing me and I suddenly remembered the time that my little brother put green food dye in the fishbowls to keep Barry Beta from getting pinched on St. Patrick’s day and the next morning he was floating at the top.  This is what her eyes made me think of: the dark green of the water and the dark, glass-boned stillness of Barry’s body curled into the flat surface.
“Myra,” I said, and had to reach out a hand and grab her sleeve because she didn’t hear and didn’t stop.  “Hold on, Myra.
:iconmscellanea:MsCellanea 4 8
PROSE What Spies Do
My dad is a rock.  He is solid, he is powerful.  He can still pick me up and toss me over his shoulder.  He is never seen to cry, he can never be swayed or damaged by opinion.  He is a real estate agent, and he pushes those deals and sways those clients with confidence and experience.  He flexes his arms at the dinner table when I ask him and points exactly which way it is to the beach or the gun show.  He is a tree, a mountain, a thick and formidable presence in any room, in any place, against any person.
“He’s late,” my mom said, and pursed her lips through the steam of her hot dinner plate.
My brother pushed a floret of broccoli with his fork.  “Can’t we just start without him?”
“Absolutely not.”  She frowned.  “God help us if we become one of those families that never eats together.  It’s an important part of your childhood, and so ma
:iconmscellanea:MsCellanea 290 101
Immigrant's Guide to Colorado
I was promised horses.  I remember this distinctly.
My dad knew as well as I that moving isn’t easy, especially to a place so very far away, so he would cushion it with promises such as these.  Thoughts of horses and mountain ranches made the process of tearing away from my homeland all that more bearable, so I complied.  My visions were of a log cabin situated on the hips of the foothills, with gentle mares that would lean their heads in my window in the heat of summer mornings.  Of dirt roads and tractors, of cattle and barbed wire.  But mostly horses, of course.
Colorado is not all horses and ranches.  Our house turned out to squat in a quiet patch of suburb that seems a subtle copy of the very neighborhood from which I had come.  It is a pale ivory and not made of logs, and the grass lives in trim, green patches like quilt squares, not in long stalks that whisper to my elbows.  And the mountains?
:iconmscellanea:MsCellanea 89 82
You told me that you couldn’t find the map, and I looked breathlessly on.  I forced the worry, the doubt, the fear into every pore of my face and looked you in the eyes.  Stop kidding around, I said.  It’s not funny, I said.  But it’s really gone, you said.  I don’t have any idea where we are, you said.
We spent the next week wandering around, over and under rocks, in circles around the trunks of ancient trees that whispered truths into the wind.  We lost ourselves in the creases that mountains make and learned that water from the stream doesn’t kill, but tastes like ice and freshness.  We found that those big red berries hold some close relation to ipecac, and that the blue ones taste like dry lemons but stay down.  We only figured out how to make a fire one night, but we danced around it and shook our dirty faces in defiance of the clean and open sky.
You found that wounded rabbit
:iconmscellanea:MsCellanea 4 16
Leaving Ian
My Dearest Ian,
I left you because I didn’t know how to talk to you.
I would try to have a conversation, and you’d get that look in your eyes that put you off in a world of your own machinations, and I was stuck there with the thin shell of you.  It’s hard to talk to shells.  When I would ask you if you were all right, you always said you were.  No matter what the case.   Even if you were sick and coughing up your lung or something.  I had this terrible nightmare once that you were in a car accident and I ran to you to find the bottom part of you flung across the intersection, and your torso draped like wet towels across your seat and you told me that you were feeling fine.  Some days, I would look in your eyes and everything in your world was breaking and melting and sliding down into a great, terrible heap at the base of you that made your feet heavy.  But you wouldn’t tell me.  I
:iconmscellanea:MsCellanea 15 25
Love Song of the Other Half
You said you had defined yourself
In the crooks of my elbows, in the angle of my nose.
I looked in the mirror and found the curves of me
To be very much my own.
. . .
I would catch your eyes from across a room,
Across an ocean and beyond a beach,
And hold them there for precious, fragile seconds
In a dire reluctance to move
Lest my return be skewed, construed as something
More than coffeepots or the metal feet of desks.
. . .
Burn pictures of me now as the fog rolls in on mouse feet
Pray to God and science that they can lead you
Drag you
To a warmer paradise
Because my curves are not for you, dear.
My self is not for you.
:iconmscellanea:MsCellanea 252 75
Licking Off Light
I was surprised to find that you were afraid of the dark.  You of all people should have nothing to fear in it.  But then again, I too was once aware of the eyes and teeth and hulking spines that could press into shadows.  I have heard their slitherings, I have heard the gnashings of their teeth.  I grew out of these things, and there was a day where I realized that they did not belong with me, like that day I found that I could touch my toes to the ground as I dangled from monkey bars.
You never did.
Every night at eight, when the sun was beginning to slide off the expanse of the sky, you would turn on that one lightbulb, sitting like a final tooth in its socket on your desk.  It was harsh and painful to the skin of my eyes.  You would keep boxes of fresh bulbs under the sink.
One day, in your absence, I took the silken scarf from my head and laid it over the bulb.  When you flicked the switch on, you realized what
:iconmscellanea:MsCellanea 12 12
The Dark People of Sao Tome
The dark people of Sao Tome with knotted muscles were told not to fly
By science, and a God that poked his head through the blue above.
There were dangers untold in the sunken underbellies of clouds
And none to wait with opened arms when they lost their hold on air.
They complied.
But things stirred, ever full and rich with truth
In the depths and canyons of their minds.
A weathered woman, old as rocks and water,
Would sometimes steal a moment or two to dream, to remember.
The passing days and months turned these moments into many hours.
One boy, young as sunrises, would place a foot in their air
And then the other, just to know that he could.
The passing days and months moved on to see him walking home
On the air, all the way.
By the light of moon, a youth who had much to learn of the world
But knew every secret of earth and sky
Would climb to the spindly, flexing tips of trees, and leap into chilled air.
He would slow himself, stop himself before he touched ground to hang there,
:iconmscellanea:MsCellanea 2 4
As I aged, the days leading up to and out of the sickness stayed clear and smooth in my mind, as if dipped in glass and set upon my desk to remind me whenever I passed.  I remember there being some calm, scientific hubbub in a lab somewhere, then warnings spread thin and sparse across radios and walls.  It wasn’t until mom got sick that anything began to feel threatening, and it wasn’t until they ran out of room in the graveyards that it began to sink in.  We drove her body all over town, trying to find somewhere clean and good to take her, but eventually brought her back home.  I dug the grave.  It was deep, with beautiful, straight sides.  I looked up once to see Kyla watching me from the window.
“Hey, get down here!  I need help!”  As I spoke, it was difficult to ignore the pressing urge to cry.  If I stayed silent, I could beat it.
“I can’t,” she said, and it
:iconmscellanea:MsCellanea 4 10

Random Favourites

Oh boy, it took a looong time to sort all of this out.  Once more, many thanks to all those who made this competition possible: the prize donors, the judges, the people who helped promote it, and of course the entrants. This was a lot of fun, and spending all that time divvying up the prizes and reading people’s comments really brought home to me the fact that there’s always room for big-heartedness and good intentions among the deviantART community. Anyway, I should probably shut up and get on with announcing this. How exciting!
:iconthekingoffall: :iconadeimantus: :iconsalshep: :iconmisskittyoooo:
:iconjunkbyjen::icondementdprncess: :iconalienhead: :iconapocathary:
Winners were decided via each of the judges’ votes having a value on a numeric scale. These values were added together, and the winners were placed according to who had the lowest to highest score. All of those entries which appeared on one or more judge’s ballot and
:iconsalshep:salshep 37 28
The Return :iconmindofka:mindofka 141 99
Read More in March (Overview and Week One)
The Read More in March initiative, which began as the brainchild of lovetodeviate, asks deviants to focus on a new activity or area of emphasis for every week in March.  We have a lot of momentum going from Crit Month, and there are some amazing things coming up in April and May, so we want to see that community participation continue.
:typerhappy: In fact, conversations are already beginning!  Get in on a poll and say your piece.  It's time to talk about Literature.  :D
:bulletblue: What's your absolute favorite book or genre? by twilight-apple
:bulletblue: What was the last book you read and enjoyed? by BeccaJS
:bulletblue: What do you read for pleasure? by GeneratingHype
:icongeneratinghype:GeneratingHype 74 15
Armchair Travel Prose Winner
:omfg: This was as difficult to judge as the poetry, but I have at last chosen a winner. The eligible entries recieved were:
:bulletpurple: MsCellanea :
:bulletpurple: KarianaSan :
:bulletpurple: CyanideAndCake :
:bulletpurple: deZtornmind :
:bulletpurple: :dev thevioletlolita: :
:bulletpurple: endless-one :
All very good entries, but there can be only one winner, and so:
:trophy: Congrats to MsCellanea, for her story of disappointment and acceptance in the suburbs:
:iconsalshep:salshep 15 7
:spotlight-left: PRESENTING: SOUNDZINE ISSUE 4    :spotlight-right:
Issue 4 marks the end of our first year, and what a year it’s been! From the spark of an idea that stemmed from a chatroom conversation, Soundzine has grown steadily with each issue into a journal we can safely say is unique and something to be very proud of.
Here’s our first year’s issues, all together:
ISSUE 1:  APRIL 2007
ISSUE 2:  JULY 2007
Do take a browse through, if you haven’t already!
:iconsoundzine:Soundzine 36 14
LISTEN CAREFULLY-- I shall say this only once.
Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to create a piece of literature, or visual literature, around the theme of:
:spotlight-left: I SPY :spotlight-right:
You can interpret this any way you want— to spy something with the eye, 007-style espionage, a creepy stalker, a suspicious spouse, a sneaky paparazzi journalist, a witness to a crime, anything you like – as long as it fits I SPY
:| Seriously, now. Read these things I’m about to say. If you’re too lazy to read this and miss out, that's just tough bananas.
You can be very sure this will not be a popularity contest-- it's about the QUALITY of the submissions, so make sure write your very best. Spell-check, grammar-check, revise, have the piece critiqued, and polish it up 'til it shines!
:sun: ENTRY TIMES: :sun:
OPENS: 15th January 2008
CLOSES: 29th February 2008
:iconsalshep:salshep 150 96
FOR BILL - In Appreciation of `GeneratingHype
I had started this on the quiet recently, a chain-of-whispers for a surprise to spring on GeneratingHype, to cheer him up since he's been unwell.
:( But it seems he's had to retire from dA for the moment, so it doesn't make much sense to keep it hush-hush any longer.
What I'm asking people for is to write a poem or bit of prose "For Bill", something to make him laugh (or cry, we all know what a giant softie-heart he has), just something written especially for him. I wanted folks to post me the links, and was going to stick them all in one post on his front page, as a lark.
Anyhow, might as well do it here, hey? Won't get so lost under all the get-well-soon messages and such.
Let's write something for Bill, so he'll have a pile of reading to do when he feels up to it again, and is reminded how very highly he's thought of in this community.
Link your poem or prose "For Bill" here, if you decide to write one.
:iconsalshep:salshep 52 30
A Place for Poetry #1
Welcome to LineCount's Introductory Feature.  Our team has scoured deviantART looking for great poetry in all its forms, and below is just a sample of the amazing words we've found.  Read, enjoy, and be sure to comment constructively on the poems (and don't forget to leave lots of love to these talented writers).
Visual Poetry

:pointr: Vacation haiku by Laurence55
:pointr: Why I Don't Write Haiku by lunaiy
:pointr: fishing fisher's fissure by intthis
:pointr: Political Limericks by beccasai
:iconlinecount:LineCount 69 32
fotoFRIDAY Anniversary Contest Results!
We challenged writers and photographers to find inspiration through progress, and we were not disappointed by the result!  Aided by three amazing photographs and one specific theme, over 95 entries poured in to help us celebrate fifty-two weeks of fotoFRIDAY picture prompts.
And now, without further ado, the winners:
  Poetry and Prose Writers
:trophy: Overall Winner
Progress Under Satellites

by ignia
Category Winners
:bulletblue: Drabble:  Tree by missmidge
:bulletblue: Haiku/Senryu:  The Light Switch by EveningDownpour
:bulletblue: Open Poetry:  
:iconfotofriday:fotoFRIDAY 22 20
fotoFRIDAY: The Stage
Well, we have quite the collection for you this week!  But first, please take a moment to look at our Anniversay Contest</b>.  There are only seven days left to get those entries in (photography and/or literature submissions accepted), and the prizes are pretty kick-ass.
Now with that out of the way...
:postit:  Two weeks ago we asked our participants to make us laugh using this picture for inspiration:
OOPS wrong turn

by DanidaeSkye
There were some rather entertaining entries, but this one stood out:
:bulletred: Three Men and a Bug by HaveTales-WillTell
Other notable contributions:
:bulletblue: Spontaneity by Shazbar
:bulletblue: A Meands
:iconfotofriday:fotoFRIDAY 22 6
We're Making Progress! (A fotoFRIDAY Contest)
Happy Anniversary! :party:
On September 7, 2007, fotoFRIDAY will be celebrating its fifty-second week on dA!  That will be one year's worth of photo prompts for your viewing and writing pleasure!  As you can tell, we're a little excited.  fotoFRIDAY is one of the longest-running photolit projects on this site, and in the past year we have grown from a small-time whim in secondmagpie's journal to a community staple.  To honor this special occasion, we're holding a contest based around a single theme: progress.
At first glance, progress has nothing but positive connotations: moving forward, new developments, advancing, achieving goals—but, as with all things, progress can have a darker side as well.  We invite all you writers and photographers out there to put on your thinking caps, tap into your creativity, and really explore what "progress" can mean.
Of course, there are a few rules—.
:iconfotofriday:fotoFRIDAY 77 65
The Death of Bobby McKnight
I do the same thing everyday.  I drive my white 1992 BMW bug to the post office in Los Angeles.  I pick up my load and drive my route through Hollywood and on to Beverly Hills.  Then when all the mail is spent from my trunk, I return the truck to Los Angeles and drive home in my bug.  I watch a little prime time TV and go to sleep with the prospect of doing the exact same thing the next day, but there was one day that changed all of that.
I had picked up my load as usual in L.A. and started heading to Beverly Hills.  Everything went as planned: the mail made the same sound as it bounced around in the back, my favorite morning show blared over my radio as I went from house to house, and even the Miller’s dog attacked me from across the yard as I attempted to put the mail in their slot.  Yes, everything was as it should be, until I started for Hollywood.  I had just left off at my last house in Beverly Hills and s
:iconmusicgrl12589:musicgrl12589 1 5



could kill you with her brain.
Artist | Literature
United States
Current Residence: In a room, drinking tea.
Favourite genre of music: Rock, Punk, Classical, Reggaeton, Alt., Indie, Ska...
Personal Quote: To be great is to be misunderstood.
  • Listening to: The Hazards of Love (Decemberists)
  • Reading: Ann Pattchet
  • Drinking: Chai
Free at last!  Life is beautiful and full of spare time to be filled, of course, with writing.  I'm sad to report that I shall never get to really looking at all the beautiful deviations of friends and such that have piled up over the last few months, but I plan fully to be better about that in the coming months.  But I have some recent poetry I'll toss up her as well.  Lovely.

Most importantly, and on a complete random lark, are there any college deviants out there that will be/ are attending Colby College in Maine this fall?  I'll be a freshman, and would love to meet some friends.  Hope to meet you!



Add a Comment:
Amberlouie Featured By Owner May 10, 2010  Professional Writer

Love and enter poetry! :D pleasee :heart:
Aleire Featured By Owner Jun 24, 2009
So, while viewing your page I noticed that I had posted a link which had inspired a nasty comment. I couldn't remember why so I clicked it.
Aleire Featured By Owner Apr 1, 2009
Um, herro.
I think you're quite swerr.
VindicatedStallion Featured By Owner Mar 5, 2009  Hobbyist General Artist
I have a problem with seeing people online and wanting to shower them with love. xD SO HI! Your writing is awesome and you have now been love showered. =3 Hope things are going well and thanks again for help in the past, it has made me a stronger person for the future.
MsCellanea Featured By Owner Mar 11, 2009   Writer
Oh, well thank you ever so much! And I'm glad to hear you're doing well-- I knew that you'd end up stronger for it all. :)
VindicatedStallion Featured By Owner Mar 14, 2009  Hobbyist General Artist
Haha. All thanks to you of course. ^^
Aleire Featured By Owner Mar 2, 2009
MsCellanea Featured By Owner Mar 11, 2009   Writer
Aleire Featured By Owner Jan 26, 2009
Even though you ended our relationship in government today I thought I would use this wall, thing, in order to profess my (now unrequited) love to you, my history buddy.

No pictures this time?! For real?! I am so proud :P

mokokacho Featured By Owner Jan 23, 2009
I've already called you, but I still think you should know that I love you too much, and I'm so, so proud of you. You are truly inspiring. Gotcher neck.
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