i fought the war, but the war won.i'd marry you all in this very large, grotesque wedding that's glory-full of polygamous deeds, if i could. (could/should/would i?)
novacaine language. i. i promised you anything but this story. and for that, i apologize. ii. narrow men in narrow wars, pointed chins and drooping guns. the soles of their sorry boots, all scuffed up and frowning, stretch up and down the tired horizons before them. cracks and crevices in the dirt quiver under the sun as the wives back at home are drinking up a dozennovacaine language.
romance. prologue. i am here to tell you nothing but the truth. one. you are my ballerina, you will spin for me. you will set your feet into the air, pointing at the wall and looking at the wall and spinning at the wall. and you will look into your reflection, and you will see sorrow, and i will see diamonds, and you will see pain, and i will see diamonds, and you will see death, and i will see you. you and me and diamonds scattered acrosromance.
lucia di lammermoor. prologue. With hollow hands I carve you quick, a plastic constellation of skin and scars and scratchy bone with ribbon fingers stretching out to caress the sultry wind. And with this instant creation you tilt your head back with brilliant blue eyes, a picturesque figure soaking in the mechanical seams of the sun. And thus, you are born, born into the machine-like world in which you are different from. You are a painting that has been ripped alucia di lammermoor.
Wicked Lies and Butterflies Various colors drip off the television, painting my living room walls disgusting tints of what has been and what should never be. Mother remains stretched out across the couch, mumbling words of riddle that never made sense to either of us. I breathe into a jar and place it in her left palm, the only hand that doesn't have dying quotes and last lines of songs all written upon it. She opens the jar and slowly inhales all of the oxygen. Her life support. She then throws the glass container at the wall behind her and the shards all stick into the cheap wood. The wall bleeds blue and theWicked Lies and Butterflies
| my name is john austin, i'm of the age seventeen, and i tend to writes stories, but every once in a blue moon, i do something different. i'm from the humid state of texas, and i've got this fine addiction to hot tea, celery-with-peanut-butter, coffee, vladimir nabokov, and you, which you have yet to realize. i am awfully nice to people, though my close comrades say that it is probably unhealthy. and behind this little literate disguise i wear, i am also a photographer. i enjoy the theatre arts, classical and contemporary music, conor oberst, surreal paintings, foreign languages, kingdom hearts, running through a not-so-sweltering park, not-matching when i attempt to, singing, and talking to people. i am involved with different groups here on deviantart, being the founder of #WritersDaily, an interviewer for #TheAlt-Lit, the membership chairman of #The-Novelist-Club, and a prose admin of *DailyLitDeviations. if you want to get to know me, maybe become close comrades and have our own little inside jokes of whatever sorts, i highly encourage you to note or comment me. and, in any case, i hope you have a fine afternoon, mate. |
Well, it's okay. You posted a poll about suggesting our favorite dA writer. This girl isn't my number one favorite, but she's become one of my new favorites: [link]
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"Be a lion not a kitten." -Thomas Cameron
Pandora's Box [link]
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I i m a g i n e...
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Eloísa Valdes,
Anthropologist by day, Deviant by night.
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