Anyone can slay a dragon … but try waking up every morning and loving the world all over again. That’s what takes a real hero.
~ Brian Andreas
The First ProblemThe door wouldn’t open; that was the first problem. She had the right key. She knew that part. And she’d pushed. Hard.The First Problem by beeinthebottle
The girl twisted her hair between her fingers. She should have a magic saber saw, something. Something always in the stories gave the heroine a chance. But the door wouldn’t open, and she didn’t have a magic saw.
She plopped on the porch step. No key. No saw. No knight on horseback. She glanced around, half seriously, for a bottle that said “Eat me” or “Drink me”—even a caterpillar with a hookah.
The girl whistled, pulled out a copy of Archie and Jughead. A one-eared white cat butted its head against her leg. Then, she stomped up to the door. “Pretty please, door—open?”
Nothing. The cat butted her again. It was worth a try.
The girl lingered in the sun, kicking at the rocks on the sidewalk. Something hard glittered beneath her feet. She leaned over and saw a raised, silver button, sli
saltwateri.saltwater by beeinthebottle
the air smelled of cyanide
we walked along
some Amsterdam canal
you looked at me,
then the sky broke open;
and the rains came
what I know about taffy:
it makes kids happy
it's sold near piers
it sticks to your fingers when you eat it
it's almost the exact opposite of cyanide
you can't begin to believe you've had enough,
until it's too late
what i know about cyanide:
it makes you sick
it kills quickly
it comes in bottles
it smells like almonds
it is almost the exact opposite of taffy
you can't begin to understand you're dying—
until it's too late
Poem for a MotherWhen I was fourPoem for a Mother by vespera
I'd follow you into the bathroom
on sticky feet,
press my little bird hands
into the back pockets of your jeans
while you were washing dishes
at the sink,
babbling on: Mommy, Mommy,
I love you.
Then there was the youth
who played Simon Says
to your aerobic routine.
I took jumps to your steps,
laughing as I tripped,
I wanted to go
where you went
I practiced to be
who you were.
The world split sideways
and I stumbled out
a teen traumatized
by the gory birth.
I'd've sworn you did it to me:
the red plague of my face,
the inexplicable serrating rage,
I beat at you as an extension
These years are quieter
and the miles between us ache
for your back pockets again,
to be in my adolescent womb,
that dumpy-brown carpeted house
with the over eager rose bushes,
all those rooms where I'd scream
Mommy! I love you!
Writers With a Promise - Issue 8Hello and welcome to the eight issue of Writers With a Promise.Writers With a Promise - Issue 8 by wyldhoney
There are a lot of very talented writers here on dA who (rightfully so) are often featured in journals and news articles. However, the idea behind this article is to promote the many writers who have shown they have the potential to reach that same level, and therefor might benefit from the support and encouragement this generous community has to offer.
Atomic Structure by RoyMustangIZLIFE Playing Dice in the Rosebushes by RoyMustangIZLIFE
There you go. Should you know anybody you'd like to see featured here (or would you like to nominate yourself), either send me a note or leave
JulyThe breeze was a tender thing;July by riparii
he was glistening and nut brown.
The grass sank before his blade
He cut a wider arc than mine-
I watched his muscles slide
in swing and stride;
grass fell before and to the side.
Two dogs dripped, panting beneath the trees.
Blades shushed with every pass, till all was done.
With the field set low in the heavy afternoon,
we swallowed fear, we raised our eyes.