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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 Daily-Lit-Deviations (and a DD! :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

I like games, okay?

Sat Sep 27, 2014, 7:27 PM


My little experiment has grown and I'm quite happy with the success so far :D If you aren't watching the StyleOverSubstance account yet, do so! I opted not to put a poll on my page every day once I got more people playing.

The first round was largely proof of concept, and I tweaked the rules in accordance with what I learned. Basically, I put a cap on guesses and provide a list of writers from the start. As the moderator, I'll no longer comment on wrong answers - as someone who answers all comments, it kinda bugs me, but it can't be helped :XD:

Each round is going to be two weeks long, so this one will end on October 6th. Round two is already nearly full, though I have a few slots left! I'll be taking a two week break between rounds to distribute prizes and allow players time to write something; the next round will start on October 27th.


It's been a week. Lots of running around with Russ, getting him where he needs to be. I took him to the pumpkin patch, where he got to pet the animals, climb a mountain of hay, ride a train, play in the bouncehouse, hayride - everything but get a pumpkin :B
Climbing Hay Mountain
Inside the maze, which was a lot bigger than it looked from the outside.
Riding the train.
Feeding some goats.

I'd like to take him again when it gets cooler, and get him a pumpkin. It was a bit early to be carting one of those home.

Afterward, I took him to my parent's house - he stayed the night there, then they took him camping the next day.
The only way to eat a hot dog.

I stayed at my parents house to watch the dog, so I had a good break. Unfortunately, I couldn't enjoy it - I had a panic attack that morning, and it stuck with me all day and into the next. I was having trouble breathing that morning because this time of year kicks up my allergies; usually this isn't a thing that would bother me, but it triggered the attack this time. I realized today that I left my meds at their house, and I also had a fever.

But I went and got my pills anyway, and have felt better since taking one. Fever isn't gone, but I can tell it's lowered. I still haven't really felt like eating today; I made myself eat a piece of chicken and some macaroni, but was having to choke it down by the end.

When I'm not with Russ or too frustrated by my issues, I've been playing a lot of games. I finished Phoenix Wright vs Professor Layton not long ago. I'm currently in the middle of Ace Attorney: Apollo Justice, and already have Dual Destinies waiting for me when I'm done. I bought The Stanley Parable on Steam, and realized it wasn't the vertigo in Portal 2 that made me feel ill; I just can't stomach first person games. At least, not for very long.

Nichrysalis introduced me to Kentucky Route Zero, which looks interesting enough to be my next purchase, though I'm also considering Dear Esther. Arguments for either side are being heard. He also gave me Three Fourths Home a while back, which is a good story, but extremely minimal - almost the entire screen is white, and it kills my eyes. I've also tried to find some visual novels online, but that proved useless.

All these games and I still make up my own :XD:

Around dA

:bulletblack: Come play my game! Guess the author! Discover new writers! Win points, bookmarks, and the admiration of your peers!

Bullet; Black Love Letter Contest

Bullet; Black Recycled Haiku contest!

Bullet; Black Micro Fiction contest!

Bullet; Black Best Friend Contest

Bullet; Black The Writer's Smile Project

Bullet; Black Pirate Tales


To Love a HedgehogI
A hedgehog in the winter,
straw against the wind.
While the heart is warm
its feet are cold.
A hedgehog all alone,
his heart is full of love,
overflowing like sun with warmth,
in the blistering cold.
But to love a hedgehog
is a task for none.
As his love is felt
through the tips of spines.
One day a fox came by
underneath her failing fur
there was hidden heart of gold.
Warm and kind - despite the cold.
“Little hedgehog”, said the fox,
“you straw against the wind
why are you alone
in this uncaring cold?”
“Dear fox” replied our little friend
“My heart is warm
with dreams of love
I don't feel the cold.”
“But little one! What is love
without a friend?
My fur is scant and failing,
but it's warmer than the snow!”
“Go away... my love is pain
felt through the tips of spines
drawing blood; precious warmth
red against the silent snow.”
“But love is pain...
the pain we share together”
and thus they cuddled
Chain-writerI go through pens like
some people go through cigarettes,
holding each between two fingers
and wringing them for ink
until they're spent
and I'm back to Office Depot,
at the register with another pack.
Every time I un-cap a pen
and watch words billow from it
as I exhale all my migraines,
all I can think about is
how absolutely perfect this feels.
When you're a chain-writer
all you care about are those moments
between poems or stories or
whatever it is you write,
when there is nothing else on earth
but you and your 5-pack of pilots.
I can quit whenever I want to,
but I never want to quit.

ConnectionsI rifle through the vinyls, letting my touch linger on each one before moving on. They all feel cold and lifeless, inhuman and unfeeling. I can sense a faint call in the base of my brain, a plea for companionship. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes, trying to pinpoint where it's coming from. My hand hovers over the bin to my right before I reach in, my movements cautious. My fingers glide against a cover, and this one feels different than the others. I pull it out, sliding the case off and turning the record in my hands. It's old, and I can see the lines where its previous owner placed the needle. Some parts are denser than others where the song was played hundreds of times.
The cashier looks at me strangely when I bring it to the front, no doubt wondering why I didn't get any of the vintage, mint condition, collectible records. She asks whether I want a bag and I decline, opting to carry the vinyl close to my heart as I walk home. The sky above is grey, and I can smell an oncoming
Becoming the ProtagonistI'm finding you in the margins of my notebooks,
doodled along the borders of my thoughts,
and the deja vu knocks the wind from my lungs.
Because I hate that you could organize my life
By the people I have fallen for.
I hate that I could write my autobiography in boy-chapters, boy-stages.
Researchers would have a field day looking through my notebooks and journals and notes,
Putting my memories into little boxes on a timelines.
I hate that there would be a different name on every box,
And I hate that you would be a chapter in my book.
It's not that I hate you.
I FAR from hate you.
But shouldn't the story of my life
be about me?
I don't want my life to be lived through others.
I don't want to be remembered by who I liked,
And what I did to impress others.
I want to remember what I did for me.
I will write my story not in boy-chapters,
But in lessons and failures.
With chapters entitled
"Honesty" "Lying" "Tears"
"Laughter" "Friendship" "Love"
I hate that I am so insecure
That I resort to

neshamah.apollo's misstep.
    look at your clock. it's tomorrow. all the seconds and minutes of yesterday are gone, disintegrated with the window dust. 12:00 a.m.; re birth. 
    i've always had this theory that in between 11:59 p.m. and 12:00 a.m., there's this vast ticking of nothingness that hovers between the minutes. just for a second, you are nowhere. the day is both finished and regenerating, and that's sort of magical. i always think that apollo falters, just for a second, as he puts the moon away, tucked neatly in his teeth.
born in a typewriter.

    i can never think of how to start anything. the point, of course, is to grab the reader's attention before they become bored with your work and leave, and i don't know if i can do that. i am afraid i cannot ever begin to tell you all of my story. 
    if i were to be chronological, i would start with telling you when i began to write. but, 1: i am never
Tapsi let roseflesh brush his dead forehead from my lips.
i kept my sickness at bay, let the alter girl pray
in her solemn face, stripper heels, unhidden hips,
fingering the sweet thickness of cinnamon incense.
"God is nigh."
there stood his quiet coffin, sugared with oregano from home,
sinking to sleep at the feet of the greediest stone he'll know.
and the trumpeter Tapped crescendos into a world of proudest crows,
low-tide irascibility, and the unmistakable tyranny in the slowly rising fall
of his lung, breathing
"day is done, gone the sun" like it lived beneath the breadth of his
carcinogenic sun. Beneath his stars and the sky, God is nigh.

Coding by SimplySilent

Lit. Community Survey! 

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Add a Comment:
bkworm5 Featured By Owner 5 days ago  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you for the llama Llama jump 
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner 5 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
No problem!
ShadowedAcolyte Featured By Owner Sep 23, 2014
Thank you very much for the feature!
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Sep 23, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome :D
Oculusrift Featured By Owner Sep 23, 2014  Student General Artist
You're so cool :)
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Sep 23, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Why thank you :aww: I don't believe we've met yet. New member?
Oculusrift Featured By Owner 2 days ago  Student General Artist
About 5 months old on this account, and I feel like a noob. Nice to meet you
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner 2 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
And you! :la:
smith4891 Featured By Owner Sep 22, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Dropping in for hugs! Hug Huggle! Tight Hug

Hugs for all the really wonderful people in my dA life. Heart
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Sep 22, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
:happybounce: :la: :glomp:
Add a Comment: