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About Literature / Hobbyist Senior Member Lauren25/Female/United States Group :iconthetitlepage: TheTitlePage
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Deviant for 7 Years
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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.

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An alternate account dedicated to playing literature games! Come join in the fun!

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

For My Own Sanity

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Empty! :noes:

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!

Meme: Alternate SelfiesI've been bored around dA lately, so I decided to start a meme :lol:
I see those long Q&A lists floating around all the time, and they're boring. They all ask roughly the same questions over and over, so I don't tend to do many. But it got me thinking - how I can spice up a tired meme? What's another way to learn about a person? And this is the solution I found.
You can tell a lot about a person by what they write, but there are lots of other ways to get an idea of who they are. What they wear; what they read; what their room looks like; what posters they hang on their walls; what they keep in their bedside drawer. If you're like me, bored with answering the same questions, then feel free to jump in and show your watchers who you are in a different way :D
1. Post a selfie.
Yeah, this is still a pretty standard one, but it's nice to put a face to the words :P
2. Post a photo of your bed.
Your sleeping area says a surprising amount. For instance, mine says I don't like to make the be
Holographic ResonanceAll things will be in everything;
nor is it possible for them to be apart,
but all things have a portion of everything.
— Anaxagoras c. 500 bce


When a holographic plate is cut several times, each fragment contains the entire image. In other words, the whole can be found in every part and the notion of separation becomes impossible. Even the idea of separation is contained in the all.


To make a hologram, a laser light is split into two beams. The first beam bounces off the object and is reflected onto the holographic plate, or recording medium. A second projected beam creates an interference pattern that contains the information of the object spread throughout
Kafka's Joke Book
Regarded as one of the most influential writers of the 20th century, Franz Kafka is best known today as "that guy who wrote a story about some dude turning into a cockroach." Working with themes of alienation, the fantastic made mundane, and parent-child conflict, his works are populated with well meaning characters caught in the crossroads of tragedy, surrealism, and existentialism.
And yet, Kafka himself considered his works funny, supposedly laughing out loud among friends when reading and sharing his work. Indeed, when read in the right mindframe, the ironic circumstances and black comedy of Kafka's nightmarish worlds can and will provoke a chuckle of two, even as events continue spiraling out of control.
Thus, I will be presenting you today with Kafka's Joke Book, a McSweeny's article written by comic and stand-up comedian John McNamee, who you may know for his work, Pie.

Cooking a StoryToday I decided to make roasted carrot soup, which got me thinking that writing and cooking are particularly ripe for comparison. At first glance, both seem easy. Buy these ingredients and prepare them, and voila, dinner.  Come up with a plot, write it out, and voila, novel. Both cooking and writing seem like tasks than can be planned and executed through clarity of thinking, fidelity of execution, and sheer force of will. Maybe this apparent simplicity is why everyone you meet on an airplane is writing a book. (Why is it always people on airplanes? Maybe that’s the only place I talk to strangers.) Of course the reality is that there is a fair bit of magic to both good cooking and good writing.

As someone who has outlined two novels, and then written two totally different books than the ones I’d so carefully plotted, I can testify that simply writing down the jou




Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States

Autumn Brontide

I bleed ink. I have unusual taste in music. I have a giant top hat. I have been featured multiple times by DailyLitDeviations / DailyLitRecognition (and a DD! (or six!) :la:) and consider that the highest achievement of my life.



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One Month Later...

Tue Feb 2, 2016, 10:42 PM


I'd say I've been too busy for a journal, but honestly, I just forgot :B

I have been around, though not participating much. It's been a while since I really did some good writing; I prefer to collect and wait, not grapple with something that isn't there. I'm just not interested in writing at the moment. So, I've kept myself otherwise occupied. Been to Pinnacle Mountain twice:

And climbed about 900 feet up the second time:

Russ did great on the climb. We get back down and I let him go to the playground. Ten minutes later, he faceplants.

We got some snow for a day, Mom and I went to a card-making event at the library, I've had various lunch dates with most of my family - but not with Doc, who I plan to have a very late Christmas with. I've also been explaining the unique narrative structures of video games to him, and my lesson plan includes eventually making him play one :lol: My plan is to get him and my PS3 in the same room and make him play Journey, which I find to be an extremely literary game for something with no dialogue.

(Speaking of which, if anyone wants to chat with me about narrative structure in video games, hit me up!)

Went to see Kung Fu Panda 3 a few nights ago - I think the second is still my favorite, though the latest movie is really good. It's been a long time since I've run into a franchise that's consistently this well done - even the shorts I found on Netflix were true to the original. This team is really good about balancing drama and comedy. Plus, I'm a sucker for good fight choreography.

And today I had a job interview with a nanny service, and I'm a background check away from going to work :D

I'm also getting back into the habit of reading - I'd been kinda dropping off lately. My Goodreads challenge is 50 books for the year (do re-reads count?) Just finished Below by MegMcKinlay, which was a nice, leisurely read that I really enjoyed. I seem to be picking up these quieter book a lot lately - guess that's just what I'm in the mood for right now. Been trying to pull from the kid's section a lot too, now that Russ is growing older; I want to be able to point him to some great books when the time comes :D I've already promised him I would get him a library card when he turns five in March :)

Have a pretty sunset.

Notes to Self

:bulletblack: Clean your room. Seriously.

:bulletblack: DDSuggestionDrive is open!

:bulletblack: Considering sending Valentine cards, but it may be a bit late to actually make stuff now.

:bulletblack: I'd like to work on another article if I can find something to build around.

:bulletblack: No, that pretty much covers everything. I'm pretty chill lately.


MedusaI lost my virginity on the train tracks to a girl named Arietty.  It had been her idea to do it in the shadow of an old factory where a weathered word on the back wall mumbled MEDUSA.  One day after three glasses of scotch, my dad told me that in his day a whore that went by Polly Pocket used to operate there.  She’d give all the boys handjobs over their pants; she was the real Medusa
Arietty was the kind of girl who put on her lip gloss in class but wore sneakers year-round.  We swore to each other that we would get married after going away to college—I was going north and she was going west—and live in the big city.  I was naive back then, but I’d convinced myself that the orange-haired girl from second period math was the only one.
“I wonder how many trains have gone by this spot,” she whispered beneath me as I fumbled with my zipper.  I was wondering how long I could last, but I didn’t tell her that.
midnight bluehiram,
what can i say when
the stomach ache turns to
cancer turns to midnight
phone call when i
cannot think
of alternative remedies
to suggest, to slow
the tide as it
swells against your
i pull over, and i
watch the breaking waves, and i
listen, for what can i
possibly say —
what is there to say?
i can only pray
for the day you can
sprawl over the sunless deck
and not feel the vultures
feasting on your eyes, your
tongue. i pray for absolute
oblivion, that you may
forget you are only ever

i am writing myself into rooms,
four walls, four loves, four
atria pulsing in my chest. i am
writing myself into other people’s
arms as if it makes a damn
difference, i don’t know when
my own hands stopped being enough.
i am a girl made of oceans, i am a girl made of
glass, i am a body made of wax with a tongue
of fire. i have watched saturn drop through
its ring, plummeting into glacial seas and
frost-bitten remnants of constellations,
i have seen silence take shape and sit
heavy on my chest like a mourner
splayed on an empty coffin.
i have written my obituary in a
moment spent diving into concrete
teeth, my memoirs in an hour of sitting
laughing in the rain, i swear i have written
three suicide letters all addressed to the same
person (who I should’ve been, who i shouldn’t have).
i am writing myself into
a pair of jasmine lips as
if she will drink me in and
i can be a part of her, a nerve,
a collection of cells, an organ when
in truth i know i
yellowingthey hate the sound of your voice,
soft and breathy and
brutally honest, shaky, about to cry.
and so you take a string
of their wants and thread them through the eye of a needle
you made from the leftover pieces
of your old personality. softness is a weakness—
   no one wants to befriend a time bomb,
nobody falls in love with the cyanide. you cannot cry
and you cannot speak and
you can’t even remember to paint over yourself:
                    yellow, for happiness, where the sickness
drags down your limbs. yellow, for smiles, so when you
mumble your suicide note, they laugh like
it’s the punchline.
(you always were good at
being a punchline.)

Coding by SimplySilent

Anyone else have a pageview spike on January 14th? 

7 deviants said Mine jumped to 308 that day :O


SilverInkblot has started a donation pool!
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Add a Comment:
Leslie666 Featured By Owner 20 hours ago
Very grateful for the Llama :tighthug:
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner 2 hours ago  Hobbyist Writer
Anytime :)
Cyang227 Featured By Owner 1 day ago  Student Traditional Artist
Thank you for the llama! :'D Your writing is so awesome and vivid and ohmygosh this is so cool--
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner 1 day ago  Hobbyist Writer
Anytime :D
moonkata84 Featured By Owner 6 days ago   Writer
Welcome to HaikuWriMo! Feel free to begin submitting your haiku!
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner 6 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you :D
moonkata84 Featured By Owner 5 days ago   Writer
I am sorry! HaikuWriMo is for Haiku written in the month of February!  I did not properly check your submissions. Please submit again with haiku you have written this month : ) 
hosagu Featured By Owner Feb 1, 2016  Hobbyist Photographer
Suggest me DD's :stare:
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Feb 1, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
I think I can do that.
hosagu Featured By Owner Feb 1, 2016  Hobbyist Photographer
I saw that :la: :love:
Thank you :giggle:
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