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About Literature / Hobbyist Senior Member Lauren24/Female/United States Groups :iconlitrecognition: LitRecognition
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SilverInkblot's Silver Box

The Good Stuff

I have a big gallery. If you're going to read anything from me, make it something from this box.

SuperimposeHe doesn't look like a gymnast. He's all button down shirts and frazzled grey hair framing wire spectacles, a picture perfect professorial archetype down to the very tips of his frayed shoelaces. But he was a gymnast once, or so he tells us, and I believe him because he smiles like he knows something while he's chatting before class.
It's strange to see that image superimposed over the current one – the distinguished professor in pressed khaki slacks and a jacket, worn brown loafers exuding a faintly courteous manner (you can always tell them by their shoes), and a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand – versus the athletic kid who went to college for a semester and grew nine inches too tall to keep doing what he loved so he took up a tennis racquet instead. Gymnasts don't wear suit jackets; no steel mill worker has such manicured nails. But the images are all there, flickering just under the surface and bubbling up again when he's recounting stories about his days in Pi
Tangential AsymptotesI think about falling in math class.
The boy in front of me is writing diligently, noting each and every word as though he forgot it was all in the textbook. He has dark hair all tangled up in the back like a bramble of thornbushes and his green hoodie looks like it could use a good washing.
The professor is rattling on about asymptotes, about two lines that go on forever, getting closer and closer but never touching. He tells us about the Greek roots of the word; asymptotos, that it means "not falling together," and he scribbles nonsense equations on the board and hopes that we understand them better than he does because tenure is the only reason he's teaching this class.
As much as I hate math, I have to admit there's something beautiful about the concept. Something romantic and longing, something I can relate to in a sea of cold precision and dispassionate numbers.
I think about falling in math class. I think about fractals and their intricate patterns, turning equations into art. T
Some Lovers III died on a cold
day, numbed fingers flexing,
grasping at the last traces of embers  
withering in the grate.
I died holding your hand,
the hand I accidentally fractured
when I pushed you  too
harshly near an edge
and you flailed to find
a more elegant way
to fall and then
I heard the scaphoid crack –
but I didn't. I heard the cry
first and the pain came later
but you held my
hand anyway.
I died with my arms
held over my head,
pinned down to the sheets by your solid
mass, fingers entwined  
with yours until I
could no longer tell which bones
were my own. I baked
in the aftermath of the dying
heat and felt the blood
back into my fingers
before forgetting again
as you sighed into my neck.
I died on a cold
day, but I never felt
SurrogateI stopped using his full title
because it started sounding too formal,
and it’s hard to be standoffish with someone
who swaps albums and memories so generously,
who loves German chocolate but hates the smell of oranges,
who knows me by my boneless,
drowsy form on the couch and by my words.
And maybe one day he’ll ask
me to drop the title altogether and call him Brad,
but I won’t.
Because it sounds too much like dad,
and I’m afraid of slipping up.
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.
The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.
But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,
elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore –
except when he does.
Stories of feelings with no names - Revision i.
The feeling you get the day after sending a letter, and you know there is no possible way that the recipient has received your message, let alone formulated time to write a reply. You still get just a little hopeful when you hear the mailman drive by. You rush out to the postbox a little too quickly and are disappointed by the pile of free coupons, bills, charity flyers, and a late Christmas card from your late Grandma Moses.
You lost your voice one day. You woke up to a hollow echo in the base your throat and knew you’d lost something special before you’d ever had a chance to say anything worthwhile. You checked under the bed and tried the lost and found, but couldn’t even ask if anyone had heard it lately.
A sudden awareness that occurs during funerals that you are going to die. You are dying right now – your cells are shedding like snakeskin and your hair is turning silver and every moment is one less than
Autumn was my first love.October, I follow you -
from the magic lights of New York
to moonshines in Georgia,
until the colors dissolve.
The anxious poetry of autumn
made a memory of me.
Here’s to things I take for granted:
September blues,
chasing airplanes,
country road thunderstorms.
Unspoken words, unwritten ideas.
October, I follow you;
I thought I saw you on the shore
where the river runs through gold
on the last boat leaving the city of a hundred spires -
or perhaps Pittsburgh
(it was the lights I guess).
Here’s to the things we leave behind:
sunbeams in November,
letters addressed to no one,
poems, wounds, dead birds.
I’ve got that summertime sadness.
Maybe you’re gonna come back;
we’re changing our ways, taking different roads
and loneliness knows me by name
but October, I follow you;
without you I’m a winter heart,
a love story you don’t want,
a November shade of grey hunting ghosts
in cities that sleep inside our heads.
You told me you lied the night you kiss
is the hush of the ocean,
the glossy paint on your car,
the gleam in your eyes.
It's the ruffle of parchment in the glove compartment
of your susurrating '57 Thunderbird
as we leave the last rumble of brontide behind
on a salt-crushed highway.
Traces of powdered sugar noses
and mint milkshake lips
were cold reminders
of warm nostalgic days
when summer could melt the tarmac
like my bones under your gaze.
Old SoulsDoc says I’m an old
soul, with my postcards
and letters, and waste-no-words
policy. Doc says old souls still make eye
contact instead of playing with iPhones,
mirrors that stare back, and tell
us who we are by knowing
who they are.
Doc tells me I’m an old
soul in a young body, taming
wild Internets and bringing my words
to heel like a triple score
in a game of Scrabble.
That I was born in the wrong
decade, that I was meant to punch
typewriter keys like a boxer,
that the twenty-first century
wasn’t made for old souls like mine.
Doc thinks I’m too old
to be twenty-three, constantly forgetting
the barriers of my few years.
Like that I never wrote about myself
until he gave me moments
worth writing down, and cared
about the person behind the words.
That I learned who I was by learning
who he was, and drew a timeline
of intersection points where each
node became a poem, and each poem
became a stepping stone.
Doc unearthed an old
soul in my notebook.
Old like a favori
Turn my words against me.I want my words to take
root in your stomach and grow
up your esophagus, the calyx
of your tongue brushing the edge
of your teeth until the words blossom
from your lips in a slow
explosion of elegance, jawline
trickled with nectar, charming
hummingbirds and honeybees
with the promise of butterfly kisses.

Helpful Stuff

Button Links!

Browse Critiques!
I do Critiques upon request, though I've been known to dish them out occasionally for no reason at all ;) Feel free to ask if you'd like me to look over something for you!

Donate Points!
I'd like to be able to have enough points to make donations to contests, help people extend their Premiumships - I love being helpful :D

All You need to know about DD's
Suggest one today! :D

Suggesting DLD's
DailyLitDeviations has been having trouble garnering suggestions lately: why not help them out?

Using HTML on dA
On of the most helpful resources I've found. I refer back to it frequently :)

Using Font on dA
Because I'm a sucker for formatting :XD:

Large Thumbnails

Useful for features!

News Articles I've Written

The Visual Novel: Video Games as a Literary MediumWhat is it?

A visual novel is more or less exactly what it sounds like. It's a novel that can be played. While the form has been popular in Japan for decades, they have only recently reached Western audiences, thanks largely in part to the influx of anime, manga, and Japanese Role Playing Games (JRPGs) saturating the market. Consequently, many games of this type have anime influences in the design.
The visual novel is most easily compared to interactive fiction or the Choose Your Own Adventure series - at various points, the player is prompted to make some sort of choice that has the potential to affect the outcome of the game.  A typical game usually has at least three endings; a Bad, Neutral, and Good (also called the "Perfect" or "True" ending). However, this is not necessarily standard - most seem to fall somewhere between 4 and 10 unique endings. Often
Foreign Words the English Language NeedsOh hello. I’m finally getting around to making this news article that I said I might do, like, a month ago. Sorry, I’m not used to writing news articles. Bear with me.
Back in August, I started a series in my forums for cool foreign words. It went over extremely well and numerous people requested that I combine them into a handy-dandy news article for deviantART at large to enjoy. So, here you are: fifteen foreign words that the English language needs to steal appropriate.
Hiraeth (Welsh)
What it means: A feeling of longing associated with displacement, but not necessarily displacement from one’s original home. An intense yearning to be somewhere you are not. Hiraeth also expresses a sort of ache or longing for something of the past, somewhat similar to the notion of "golden" or "good old days," but with more ancient connotations.
Why it needs to be a thing in English: I speak as someone from a country
Untitled is just a synonym for lazy.Well, the color poem form I introduced to dA was a rousing success, but interest of late seems to have died down. So I'm back with a new form for you all, something exciting and new, something different, something that I will probably make into a contest once I get some points in the bank. You ready?
There's a group now - feel free to head over to TheTitlePage! We're still in set-up mode, so excuse the plainness for now.

Found Poetry Project - Titles as Art

One of my favorite things about the creative process is coming up with a good title. The title can make or break a piece; it can give context not provided in the piece itself, set a tone or mood, or just give that little extra something you can't put a name on.
You know I'm right. How many times have you stumbled into an ordinary piece with a beautifully creative title? And it's not something
Managing Your Inbox: Some Tips on StreamliningI'm not really an organized person. Yeah, sure, I like to TRY to be one, but most of my attempts to clean house don't stick. The one exception, however, is in my online life. I keep everything to do with the computer tabbed and organized and that includes my dA life.  
I posted a poll asking visitors what their inbox looked like on a typical day. As of this writing, of the 52 responses, 35 have full inboxes that is, somewhere between 200 and up to (or over) 1000 messages to sort through. So about 70% of the voters have quite a lot to page over.
I hear horror stories quite frequently from deviants who are overwhelmed by the sheer volume of things passing through their inbox. My personal inbox rarely reaches three digit numbers, and the few times it has, it's always been because something of mine has made the footer. While I can't promise that my personal methods will work for everyone, it n

I Am A Swing Admin For DLR!

What's That Mean?

That means I keep an eye out for the best literature on dA (specifically prose). If you think you have a suggestion for me, read on!

What is DailyLitRecognition / LitRecognition?

DLR is a group dedicated to promoting the work of Literature artists on deviantArt.

By showcasing one featured DD per day, the Literature Gallery Moderators provide the community with a showcase of excellence in Literature. In contrast, we will be showcasing excellence with a series of literature pieces each day in a News Article to serve the community. We are a diverse group featuring 5 pieces of quality literature every day.

In such a large community many writers feel that their work goes unnoticed. DLR is here to help change that!

How do I suggest a DLR?

Please see the profile page for the general guidelines and a list of the other Admins you can suggest to. Please only suggest a piece to one Admin at a time to avoid any confusion.

Okay, but what if I have a suggestion for YOU, SilverInkblot?

Top right corner - send me a note! Here's the rundown:

:bulletblue: Please send no more than two suggestions at a time. This makes it easier for me to keep up.

:bulletblue: I can feature Prose or Poetry, though I try to focus more on Prose. We have lots of Poetry Admins who are very dedicated to their job and our Prose is sometimes lacking.

:bulletblue: Please include a thumb and a description of why you think this piece deserves to be featured. It doesn't have to be a full critique - a few sentences will do nicely!

:bulletblue: Yes, you can suggest yourself! If you deserve it, you deserve it! But please don't send me your entire gallery - remember I have to actually READ everything sent to me.

:bulletblue: All the Admins have a certain style they enjoy. I myself like reading flash fic and prosetry, so I'm more likely to feature things with those qualities. However, I WILL read and consider anything sent to me. I do have to ask though, that they are standalone pieces - not chapters. I can't accept fanfiction either.

For My Own Sanity

DD Stuff!





I'm trying to get into the habit of suggesting DD's - having the links on my page is easier than hunting them down everytime :XD: Links go to the respective DD guideline pages :D

Fun Stuff


Click to see what I'm reading! I love recommendations and chatting about books :la: I should start a book club sometime.

I make bookmarks for pretty much anyone who asks. Just give that flourish a click, and you'll find instructions on how to request your own!




Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States

Autumn Brontide

I bleed ink. I have unusual taste in music. There is a Mario composed of sticky notes on my bedroom wall. I have a giant top hat. PlayStation is the best game console. I have discovered an obsession with making origami stars. I have been featured multiple times by DailyLitDeviations / DailyLitRecognition (and a DD! (or five!) :la:) and consider that the highest achievement of my life.


Stuff I do around dA:

:bulletred: I am the Founder ofDailyLitRecognition / LitRecognition. I'm responsible for Monday's article specifically, as well overseeing the various group functions and special events, and managing a team of 30+ people.

:bulletorange: Suggest DLR's every week, either directly or through the other admins. Please, by all means send me your literature suggestions! See below for guidelines.

:bulletyellow: Maintaining TheTitlePage.

:bulletgreen: Creating and selling bookmarks; feel free to request one!

:bulletblue: Suggest DD's on occasion, when I run across something particularly good :D

:bulletpurple: Weekly journals with lit. news and features :la:


Make a Difference 5 by 3wyl Night Owl Stamp + PLZ by Mirz123 Write. -stamp by Rivana Anyone Can Critique by Haters-Gonna-Hate-Me I was featured on DLD by caybeach Thank You For The... Stamp by Mirz123 Listening to the Rain by savagebinn homework stamp by sjthunder Reply Comments Stamp by Mirz123 I heart my Laptop by StamPorMole Typing Stamp by In-The-Machine DD Stamp by Drake1 Hot Chocolate Stamp by Kezzi-Rose Share your joy by Drake1 Being Nice Makes Me Happy Stmp by Mirz123

Lingering Color

Sun Nov 23, 2014, 9:55 AM


Just thought I'd get my weekly pictures out of the way :B As you can see, I've been doing a lot of driving lately. The autumn color is dying, but hanging on just a little longer. It'll probably be gone by next weekend.

Bit of a slow week. Had my first truly grueling day at the office - something like 45 patients that day. Which sounds alright, until you realize there's only one doctor at the clinic. I've more or less got it down now though, and I'll probably be doing all the check-ins myself soon enough.

I nearly picked up a second job at a call center, but ultimately couldn't do it. That shift starts at 5:00 - I'm supposed to get off work at 4:30, but I have to stay later on busier days. Both jobs are strict on timing; if one were flexible I could probably have managed it. It would have only been an extra $150 or so anyway, so I'm sticking with the job that pays more.

Speaking of work, it's going to be a short week for me - I'm off Thursday and Friday. Not a phone call or a Facebook message about our Thanksgiving plans yet. That probably means I should show up at grandma's house around 11:00. I know my family does the same thing every year, but it's still nice to hear confirmation.

Around dA

:bulletblack: I've extended my Contest deadline to December 13th!

:bulletblack: DailyLitRecognition really needs prose suggestions! Send them to me or one of the other admins of out lovely prose team please!

Bullet; Black Holiday Card Project 2014

Bullet; Black Lili's 27th Birthday Contest! - you still have some time!

Bullet; Black Holiday Horrors--A Contest

:bulletblack: theWrittenRevolution is throwing down the gauntlet: Groups Need More Respect - A Change In Rules

Bullet; Black The Writer's Smile Project

Bullet; Black Love Letter Contest

Features! in his apartment there's all this warmness, right?
i mean it's crazy - it's like this;
basements with sepia toned photos of strangers who are both beautiful and strange
hot chocolate, the kind that burns your tongue, that tells my bones they're now made of wood.
and that's okay because his eyes only flicker when there's a lighter laying around
lately, outside this apartment of his, it's pretty chilly.
it's like sunsets though - like distance in miles;
willowy shadows stretched halfway across the streets of a place you don't know of
there are benches, hard ones that make laying down together weird, but i still smile anyways.
it's not too bad, he just needs a voice with him, or maybe even his dogs, that's all
i'll say,
"just turn that heater back on, please. coffee, coffee, coffee beans.
let my bones be hollow, in that harmonica kind of way,
i'll be able to fly in this sky easier, you know."
in his damn temperature confused apartment, it needs to make up it's mind.
we're both like hea
The Afterlife For SuicidesIt's been three days since I committed suicide, or at least I think that it has been three days. Each ticking of the clock leaves me more and more confused as the seconds pass by. I've been stuck in the same room I died in, the messy, dark place where I have cried myself to sleep countless of times.
I have tried getting out of here, opening the door of my bedroom or even trying to break out of the window. However, anything I try to touch simply bounces my fingertips off of them. I would fling myself from wall to wall or even stomp on glass, but the objects would remain unaffected like they weren't there at all. I am left to drown in my confusion and thoughts.
To my surprise, I remember everything clearly. The brain I had when I was still living couldn't even process a single math problem even if my life depended on it, but now every detail of that day stood out in my mind. That day. It wasn't a special day, just another one of my usual routines. Music blasting through my headpho
typwriter lines.we would stay up late
taking negatives of our
feet, laughing at the thought
of our toes being little pigs
and going to the local market.
we were wallflowers, but back then
we believed it meant we were flowers
growing high on the walls waiting for
our prince to climb up the flowered
brick and save us.
we read of bears eating hunny from yellow
pots, and piglets walking on two feet to
a rabbits garden, and the rabbit would
yell, and murmur things the piglet
couldn't understand. sometimes, i wonder
if we were little piglets not understanding
life.  or if we just grew up a little too fast.

Attenborough should have warned meYou ruined lions for me. There is nothing
romantic in their pride, in their arrogance;
there is nothing beautiful about sharp canines
and wet black eyes and there is nothing wise about
leaving an unguarded heart in one’s path and expecting
it to do something other than what nature taught it. Nature
taught you well, she didn’t teach me the same classes and I
keep stumbling through the underbrush alone, wandering into
the lion’s den and expecting a warm welcome rather than an open
killing girls instead of mockingbirdsand with car-crashes in her eyes and 
self harm on her hands with murder in her
bones and birds in her skull she'll look up at god
and ask him why she's not pretty
Banana pancakes and the fluI'm thankful for long nights
and late mornings.
Those rainy Monday "sick days,"
where we lie in bed all morning
and talk in the
sign language
of our lips and tongues.
Banana pancakes,
couch cuddling
movie days
in last night's pajamas
and this morning's messy hair.
I want to grow old with you
and spend every Monday with the flu.

10.There lived a renowned fisherman. He always caught enough to feed his family, with plenty left over. Each morning he sailed far from the other boats; each evening he returned laden. Some suspected sorcery. Perhaps there was magic at work. The only thing the fisherman excelled at more than his trade was his hobby: every night, he spent lonely hours drawing; every morning, he threw his art into the sea. He drew only for himself—and, perhaps, the spirit of the ocean, if such exists. And if it does, perhaps it appreciated the gift, and offered its own in return. MetamorphoseCurled like a hermit crab
he inches through heartbreak
one pygmy shell at a time
MollyI still don’t understand why my reflection kept begging me to let her out.
She didn't seem happier after I did and now all she does is liquefy in the bathtub

Coding by SimplySilent

Send me some literature! 

10 deviants said If you send me something related to NaNo, I will drop a piano on your head.
6 deviants said Unknown or underappreacited writers preferred!
3 deviants said Poetry or prose!


Add a Comment:
the-music-prophet Featured By Owner 1 day ago  Hobbyist Writer
thanks for the llama! :D (Big Grin) 
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner 1 day ago  Hobbyist Writer
Anytime :D
the-music-prophet Featured By Owner 7 hours ago  Hobbyist Writer
:D (Big Grin) 
GoldenNocturna Featured By Owner 1 day ago  Student Writer
Thanks for the fave! :)
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner 1 day ago  Hobbyist Writer
No problem!
LadyLincoln Featured By Owner 4 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
I received your wonderful letter and bookmarks today!

Thank you, dearheart. :heart:
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner 4 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
xXI-Feel-InfiniteXx Featured By Owner 5 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the fave :heart:
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner 5 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
kitalia-emme Featured By Owner 6 days ago  Professional Writer
Thank you for collecting "Fifty Cent Love"
I hope you enjoy some of my other works as well.
Add a Comment: