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Becoming She's talking about fate. I'm not surprised she's brought it up, in fact I'm just a little shocked that it took her so long to think of it; it's such a loaded issue. She stirs her coffee and the straw leaves a little trail behind it in the foam.
"So I figure," she says, sipping cream from the edge of the straw, "if everything's already all pinned down for me, why should I even try? And I resent that, you know? Just the thought that I don't have to try to, like, plan my own life because somebody's already doing it for me. I want to have a say in the matter! It's my life, you know?"
I nod. Her life, I know.
She continues after a pause, though the pause is a mere formality: "If somebody told me all the things that I'd do in life"
"all the things that would happen to you," I inter
Above the Noise"I couldn't see," I confess beneath the candlelight, and the cup of tea between my palms is growing warmer with the contact; flush, clammy skin on porcelain. "I never really looked because it wasn't worth that risk; and I didn't really want to see it, after all."
He shakes his head in that earnest, melancholy way.
"They never want to see."
"Never when it matters."
This bit is trivial. It doesn't concern me, and so quickly fades away into the background of the evening. I shift nervously within my seat but there he sits, unmoving, unmoved, the same he's always been and that's every bit as unnerving as it is predictable. I can't remember how this started. Can't remember where the lantern's hanging or where the doorway is, or how we got here, or how he got here, or if he was invited or if he's chosen to arrive by force of will alone but this bit is trivial, it doesn't concern me, and it quickly fades away.
"So," I begin, and it strikes me that I'm always the o
A Trick of the LightA golden dome and spire gleaming
a portrait out of Saudi glows
blinking far across some sacred dune;
from the corner of the room I hear it hissing,
its back a lump of wax,
spine grotesquely curling, a length of curdled wick
it spins the inferno in its claws and rattles
bested by the confines of its own continuation;
I check the corner,
draw a match across the strikepad and give life to a lantern and
faces sneer along the walls,
eyes drawn in and fingers coiled
the ghouls left bleating from some long-gone trickery
and in the flash of light the corner shutters
and every breathing thing within the room is taking stock
the ghosts of faces, painted places,
heave a breath and stop
from the corner
there is something wicked hissing.
GlimpsesA swatch of black,
in the miasma of the murk, somewhere,
a rotten fiend is curling
and the mire weighs him down.
In the fathom, he lay thrashing.
Though we know not of the struggles of the brute,
the plank and pale and sweet fall breeze
breathing peace like poison down our backs;
from the surface of the deep
I glimpse it moving.
Know that not a thousand storms,
nor winters, raw with rime,
or the sins in the shadows of the jumpers
settled deep within the mud like fat and oil
and sheathe the rock and rebar with their filth
that nothing, nothing here,
and nothing moment borne
could jar the beast,
and in the fathom
he lay thrashing.
Sunburned leaves and scraps of russet
line the fringes of our world.
and as the days begin to droop and darken,
with the moisture in the air,
the soil freezes up;
adjust your collar with a passing glance,
"You'll never know
unless you take a closer look."
And in the fath
We the LiteratiWe tip our glasses, close our eyes;
the record trembles, warbles high;
the shadows on the bookcase play
like phantoms in the candles' rays.
We thought them precious, thought them frail,
as the titles scorned their dusty veils;
and in our darkest hour
we were fumbling in their power,
their quiet wisdoms, dying world,
reaching addled hands with fingers curled.
The vexing smoke, mirage unveiled,
we blinked, the reverie curtailed
stark and naked insight
threw our dreaming into light.
The ink has long ceased drying.
Those words are long in dying.
And there we found that fact,
in the sanctity of our stacks:
that none of those things would be alive
by the time the morning had arrived.
O, raise your glass, my humble friend,
be not afraid to see the end.
For we knew this time would reel us in
we knew the world would catch it's sin.
We'll mark our place on every page,
draw the mirrors, lest we age,
pull the watches 'round our necks
wind them 'til the needle flecks;
lay our records out for dustin
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More