April Literature DD Round Up

catching sand He had a habit of catching things.
Usually, good things. A basketball, or a cat falling from a tree, or his baby sister, one memorable time, as she fell out of her crib.
It was instinct to him, second nature. He didn't need to think about it—his hands acted independently from the rest of him, completely on their own accord, risk and volition. His hands, to him, were unbearably selfish. They thought very little of consequence. Didn’t they care about the potential pain? Did it matter to them that what they caught might. . . hurt?
He was still rather young the first time he caught a knife that had fallen off the kitchen counter. He caught it, unfortunately, by the blade. It sliced cleanly into the chubby flesh of his little boy palms. His mother saw the blood spilling from his hands and screamed, uncurling his fingers from around the knife. She shrieked at him, her voice shrilly with fear. Why had he held onto it like that? Why did he catch it in the first place Glass JarsThey towered high as the ceiling. Row upon row, shelf after shelf, barely enough room between them to maneuver comfortably, especially with a cane. Every shelf lined with jars. Clear glass and golden metal lids caked in dust, reflecting the weak light of hanging incandescent bulbs strung among the rafters.
He slowly wandered the basement aisles, steps halting, leaving soft trails in the earthen floor as his left leg dragged ever so slightly. Every few steps, he paused, reaching out to brush trembling, liver-spotted fingers against certain jars. One with a clipping of soft golden hair. One with dried burgundy-colored rose petals. One with a small plastic baby rattle. Each touch seemed to add just a modicum of vigor to the shambling gait, a little stability to shaking limbs. A little more shine to eyes that couldn't see the finer details of faded Polaroids or crayon drawings or fine needlepoint in their Mason jar memorials, but saw memories as vivid as if they had just happened, even one


700I read a story once about a man who had six PhD's in six different fields. I don't remember what fields they were, but I was impressed - that much I remember. As I read on, it became clear that the reason he found so much success was his severe OCD. He was so consumed by the disorder that he read each page of each textbook hundreds of times. And I remember thinking it was crazy, insane, psychotic. But I guess it worked for him. So I forgot about the man with the six PhD's and the torturous perfectionism that some call "disorder."
Until I Met Candyce Karolyn Ethanson.
It was fourth grade and I called her names behind her back because she had to get on the swings so many times in a row that she never even swung. Before she could get on the swing well enough, recess was over. She cried when our teacher pried her from the swing-set, not allowing the repetition to continue. Then we went back inside for class and I remember seeing blood on her fingernails from where they were buried in her l In Search of PunctuationThe exhausted traveler hung his
                                ampersand
on its hook, dragging his eyes across
                  and through the curves
  looking for any signs of sharpness
 or flatland meadows; somewhere
                      he might rest.
         He found nothing but
                      undulations
           rhythmic swells and
the faint hands of an impresario
              crafting the journeyrock
                         below his feet.
                     "No matter,
    I suppose." But his cellular
        structure was ringing
               in his ears,
     demanding audience                & sleep. Black Cat Amber EyeBlack coat with silken hair,
The eyes bright and young in years.
But what this glance is saying
Is as old as the world.
The eyes almost closed,
Snuggled and silent dreaming,
She lies like spilled –
Inwards restless, exuberant.
Stretched out peaceful and easy –
Gentle soul, full of happiness.
I ask myself what she might intend
By her soft glance?
Often, she lies around sleeping
And after a while, she opens
The little mouth and bends the back.
But everything without haste.
Then, when she starts to rub gently
Around my legs, purring –
It is only up to her
When she moves my heart.
When I take her in my arms
And look into her amber eyes,
How my heart warms up
And help me to believe in the good.
Black coat with silken hair,
On velvety paws slightly –
We walk together year for year
Until our journey will have come to an end.
And when once you will leave me, my purring companion,
So, I cover you tenderly with love.
And I think of you fondly what enlightens my spirit:
Re OttoIt was another gray day in Industry City, and as always, the morning found Otto pushing his old steel-mesh supply cart from house to house.
Despite the distances he had to walk each day, he rather enjoyed his job. It was not what you'd call a dream job. Or a nice job. Or even a respectable job. But it was a job. A real, legitimate, occupation. Most others like him would never achieve anything in life, working as servants or manual laborers: slaves in all but name.
When he reached the next house on his route, he approached the front door and pulled the cart up just behind him and to one side.  He knocked three times on the door and waited patiently for a reply. It wasn't long before the door opened to reveal a curly-haired, middle aged woman. She looked at Otto with a slightly puzzled expression, but listened nonetheless.
"Evvvning ma'am." Otto greeted in a friendly tone.
"Good evening...." she said, unsure of how to respond.
"My nammmme is Otto. Are you havinggg agoodday?"
"Yes, I UnawareWhen you are two and five and ten
you are unaware ––
of the cactus in the windowsill,
how, fragile, each quill bends
and breaks and falls apart.––
Twelve years later, on a Tuesday,
you dream about a boy
who bumps his head
on an iron slate and you wake
in a cold sweat.
You are twelve when you are
always bumping shoulders.
Twenty-two years of Thursday.
There is nothing at all.
And you wonder (and
you wonder why)
each time you wake.
The cactus in the window bleeds
with you when you bump it.
No one ever mentioned
frightened things bite.
So you have always been unaware. The Problem With Mary Sue    I think with any characterization there’s a point where you empathize, no matter how much of a deviance his or her actions may be from your understanding of humanity.
      ~Benedict Cumberbatch     
Today, sports fans, I’d like to talk about a subject that is long overdue: the Mary Sue (or the male equivalent, Gary Stu). But before I can talk about her, I think I should define what I think she is. This is important because the webs are teeming with varying definitions, and my idea of what she is may not jive with other people’s; the definition I see most often calls to mind Mary Poppins – practically perfect in every way – but I’ve also seen the opposite, where she is described as being impossibly weird. She’s got a bizarre (and an impossibly long) name, eye color, hair color, or other distinguishing feature that somehow signals she’s “special.”  
enduring biopoiesis               getting over it
               in quick gasps of rabbit fur
               and valley tangles
               we would have
               had such darling
               alcoholic babies
               together
               swilling burgundy,
               strung out on fake roses
               floating on our sun-striped backs
               but we're so
               happy like
               this, remember?
               some world-children cutting
               out, tuning in yet
               nothing happens fairytaleWhen I was nine and my brother was seven, our dad and his girlfriend took us to the fairground. I had only met dad’s girlfriend a few times before. Her name was Ursula, and I wished she did look like Ursula the sea witch. Really, she looked as though she had stepped right out of a magazine.
When Ursula saw us, her red lips stretched really wide to show her perfect white teeth, but her eyes didn’t smile. My brother didn’t seem to notice. He chatted away to both of them about his favourite rides, but I didn't want to look up at her face after that. When my dad went to get change from a machine, I sat next to Ursula on the bench, looking at her pointy tanned knees. Mine looked almost see-through and were soft in comparison, sprinkled with freckles like the chocolate flecked foam on one of dad’s cappuccinos.The fairground music was tinny and loud. It reminded me of the Pink Elephants on Parade scene in Dumbo.
When dad returned, I tugged at my brother’s arm poi limited stocki am nothing more
than this serotonin-starved
dopamine disaster.
my oxytocin is overwhelmed
with winter's frost, its faded
fondness reached recession
seven years ago.
i remember wretched weeping,
dry-eyed as i discovered that
my own brain had betrayed me;
it never taught me how to love.
my heart is something seasonal,
and i'm so sorry, darling.


The Bride of AtlasShe met him when the world was new;
when wars were fought in the cosmos
and celestial beings deigned expose
and visit themselves upon the mortals.
In darkness he came to her;
somewhere between fantasy and the real,
disguised as a human, burly and firm
with want of a lover and yearning for release.
She knew him as a man
and he loved her as his wife.
A Titan he had always been
at battle with Olympians
who garnered all of humanity's love
and chose war over peace to keep it.
As lightning struck, thunder roared,
and waves destroyed the earth,
all grew quiet as Olympus rejoiced
and she knew that he had lost.
Zeus then rest upon his shoulders
the weight of the world eternal.
A punishment made more severe
by lack of warmth from her mortal heart.
He carried his punishment made unending
as Earth's coarsened face gouged his back.
The insects and beasts stung and mauled
and the humans warred and burned his flesh.
Still he held the world atop his shoulders
and severed it from t

Want to suggest a Daily Deviation?

Send a link or thumbcode of the deviation you want to suggest via note to the appropriate CV. There is a "6-month rule" which means an artist cannot receive another DD if they have had one in the last 6 months.
FAQ #18: Who selects Daily Deviations and how are they chosen?
FAQ #313: How can I find out if someone already has a Daily Deviation?