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Welcome!

Here at #TalentedWritersGuild, we encourage deviants to select only their best pieces of literature for submission. We look for pieces that simultaneously move us, challenge us, and inspire us as readers; pieces that stimulate us emotionally and intellectually; and the pieces that display true technical skill. To ensure this level of quality, we have judges who consider all these things, and let only the pieces they deem up to snuff through to the gallery. The purpose of this is to push our submitters to excel, challenge themselves, and improve their craft, and to provide our readers with high quality literature to read.


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Gallery Folders

Featured
MEi. I fell in love with a girl who catalogued darkness,
sat in her room with the blinds closed and wrote down
187 ways it felt
in all of the different times she couldn't see.
My name was one of them,
#143, ash velvet, and I didn't know what she meant at the time
but the only description she wrote beneath it
was good night for stuffed animals
bad night for worn pillows.

And I'm sorry I made you dream of the rivers.

ii. I fell in love with a girl who never looked in the mirror
but dressed to perfection, somehow
in her blue skirt and black socks
white tennis shoes
and a smile crooked as the bottom side of Indiana –
yeah, I ME by ~winterkate
Astronauti.238,900 miles away
the Earth gleams in the darkness.
A cat's eye, opalescent blue
flecked with terra verdant,
fifty-two cream colors
of cloud.

Under a heavy lid of night,
it glares. Angry.
Baleful.

As if to say to the Sun:
I was dreaming
of all the fish
in my seas.
As if to ask why
it had to be woken.

ii.
Thoughts are protozoan here;
with glass-thin skin
transparent as the first lie
he ever told as a child.
No,

I didn't steal that candy bar.

He can see the mechanics,
the workings,
the insides.
They divide like dreams,
impossibly smoothly,
Whole and unbroken
as they tear apart. If
he could stretch far eAstronaut by ~winterkate
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat –
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.

You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.

If not, try and see tVolpi. by ~winterkate
THAT POEM (Writer's Block)I sat down at my computer last Thursday night
with the full intention of writing THAT POEM. Oh, don't
play dumb. You know what THAT POEM is. We all know
what THAT POEM is. You with the cigarette train-tracks
charting your eternal drift to nowhere
on the insides of your arms, you
with the sludge of alcohol dripping thick & brown through
veins swollen & slow & pussy as zombies, you
with the eight children whose faces you can't remember
& the husband in the Hamptons whose name you sometimes forget
& the lover who never seems to come around as much as you pay him to – you
all know what THAT POEM

is. It's the rhythm beating a dullTHAT POEM (Writer's Block) by ~winterkate
Featured
Poetry
The Call of the MermaidsFramed in a flowery frame is
this tunnel strewn with grain
that blooms into Styx' orifice;
it opens on shores littered
with limbs, bones and sinew
which cast shades over
boney nails like blunt claws;
they hide amidst veined stones
pulsing with neurons,
spilt from contours
that float, when leaving
their bare prints;
on their journey to harken
the sirens' vagitus song,
that grabs them in waves,
when the gleam of the scales
casts light on their smiles,
their scribbles in the rocks,
and the coins in their eyes,
sown along this seaside.The Call of the Mermaids by ~Pr0metheusUnb0und
Pull Her Hair/Stare At The StarsThe ghosts have crashed their ship
on the other side of town,
you can see it from the second floor
all the way over here.
You can see the white clouds
rising from the wreck
and a nova of heat, a big bright
nova of warmth pulling the moths and wolves
out from the woods (with their noses up and searching).
You can smell the yearning like bees
leaving the hive, like the grizzly brown bears
on the jagged white mountains (concrete and imposing).
They call it fear,
but I see these ghosts
scrambling up into the sky
and I like to think it's
something different entirely.Pull Her Hair/Stare At The Stars by *FallingAsleepTonight
The Bottom of the BoxThere is nothing to decipher
in the cracking of leaves
on the sidewalk.
Or the way her hair draws lines
in front of her blue coronas,
in the smell of black coffee
and warm tea.
You see these people
looking up at the clouds,
looking at their reflections
bent and stretched against
the hood of a car.
In fur and luxury,
in large collections of art.

(The best of which are only
crude depictions of the magic
they are looking for.)The Bottom of the Box by *FallingAsleepTonight
XXXXXEven now,
part of me
(my hands)
want to
pull out
that glass
she lodged
in her neck.

Pull it out
and drop it
into pieces,
or keep it
in the back seat
of my car.

Where it can
lay a while
and stare at me.
Part of me
(my chest)
is not afraid
of demons.

It is far less
dangerous
than girls with
haphazard knives
and other
monsters.XXXXX by *FallingAsleepTonight
Poetry
Prose
And Here Is JohnHere is John, beside me again. Sometimes when we meet he gives me a small, courtly bow, other times he's tired and he can only muster up a smile as the words "Bonjour, ma belle," fall out of his mouth. Sometimes his eyes burn feverishly, sometimes they're dull, sometimes he's drunk. It depends on where he's been that day. There are only two things constant about my John; he always manages to smile, and I can always see the fear deep in every line on his face.

Paris is grim, and John spends his time here waiting. His whole life now is waiting and fearing what could happen. No one knows what will happen, now. The front is moving closer to theAnd Here Is John by =doughboycafe
The Creator's Game Rain splashed at the wide window. Lightning flashed, brightening up the office, showing the silhouette of a man. Footsteps soon followed, indicated only by the slight vibrations in the floor, since the raging storm drowned out all noise.

Another flash. This time, the man was much closer, and appeared to be heading toward the door. He may have seen me in the flash, though I doubt he could make out my features any more than I could see his, and instead he merely knew that the safest option was to escape from the mysterious intruder while he still had the chance.

The door opened, and light trickled into the room. I saw his face, old and wriThe Creator's Game by *goldshroom
Starving Children in AfricaI told my sister that my roof leaks.

Far away, my sister said, there are no roofs to leak at all, nor bear the burden of monsoons, nor cast a cool shadow for the residents beneath.

I told my sister that my roof leaks still.

I told my brother that my fridge is empty.

Far away, my brother said, a child prys a rock onto its side, in hopes of finding grubs to eat. He has no fridge to cool his food, no food to speak of at all. All he has is a rock, and a stick.

I told my brother that my fridge is empty still.

I told my mother that my siblings are obstinate.

Not far away at all, my mother said, some child is wishing they had siblings. Right Starving Children in Africa by ~InconspicuousFallacy
The Sultan's Pillow - Pillow Fight ExcerptThe Sultan's Pillow Copyright 2013 Bryan Rogers
Illustrations Copyright 2013 Lisa Garr

Available on Amazon!

Every spring the Sultan Kasib and his pillow, named Nahid, would throw the Perennial Patty-Cake Pajama Party. Whereas other sultanates might host a dance or ball, “Hey, look at me! I danced in a circle! Oh look, I just went around again!” The Perennial Patty-Cake Pajama Party was the most smashing of pillow fights!

Kasib would ask everyone over to his palace for the night. All the hotty-toddies and high-to-do’s were invited. From she-pharoahs, belly dancers, baristas, palm readers, and cucumbers to kings, ambassadorThe Sultan's Pillow - Pillow Fight Excerpt by *WaterBalloonWorkshop
Prose
Chaptered Work
The Fragile Things (Part One)
Ebony didn't know how long she'd been here for, lying across the floorboards in the dark, like a corpse displayed upon a mortician's table. Her eyes took in nothing—not the fungus spores creeping across the ceiling or the blistered wallpaper. The atmosphere was heavy and foreboding, as if death had seeped into the very bricks and plasterboard, the flesh and bones of the building.

In a way, she supposed it had.

There was a knot of Serpents in Ebony's belly. She could feel them squirming and twisting around her innards. Her fingertips trailed across her ribcage, resting upon her stomach like a mother-to-be.

Well, not exactly.

Ebony's stomacThe Fragile Things (Part One) by ~VShaw
Rise of Hawk, Part One, Scene One by *keyanadrake
The Eye of the Storm: PrologueThe weather in Arizona was always fairly constant throughout the year. Heat was present, of course, but after living there for so many years its easier to feel the air as a comforting warmth rather than a blistering oven. Our front yard was covered in brown grass. So was our neighbor's. More or less, the entire block, the entire city of Tucson, shrouded itself in brown grass or rough and grisly sand.

In retrospect, every place I'd seen in the area was that color of deep orange brown, as if the Red Rocks surrounded each square block of the city. Even now, thinking about the school buildings or the recreational swimming pools, everything seemeThe Eye of the Storm: Prologue by ~LexiWynn
It Began With Ashes - Prologue.
     "Are we being followed, father?"

     "No, Astartes, we are not being followed."

     "How can you be sure? You didn't even look!" Astartes whined. Struggling to turn in the saddle behind his father, Astartes craned his neck to look back through the night. The dirt track meandered this way and that, winding through the Emberfen Forest. The path was hard to make out amongst the muddy browns of the woodland, made all the more difficult by the thick canopy obscuring the glow of the stars and moon overhead.

     Nicolas shook his head, scratching idly at his flame-red moustache. "Don't let your eyes play tricks on you, son…there's noIt Began With Ashes - Prologue. by *D-E-M-Emrys
Chaptered Work
2011 Re-Vision Contest
Fore the AbyssImpossible to thee, but not to me,
This seems. Impossible to be
But not to seek, I deem.

Thou are like blooms that would not die, nor fade
Nor change from green to dyes untried and new
Nor droop at night to catch the morning sun;
Thou are unchanging in the light of day.
But I cannot but be amazed,
To see the new-bloomed blues
And see the hoary browns unfold
When vibrant hues diffuse.

Thou are like bees, that would forever toil
Uncaring towards some goal; unknown, untold,
Immortal but remote, immutable--
And buzzing to and fro, would never grow.
But I would take their twisting paths
And wind them in a route
Straight through thFore the Abyss by *williamszm
i do fearit was when I first saw San Marino, i felt your breath.
and when it stuttered on my mouth, warm—
(how long ago?)

the way there is an endless
sweeping of sky, heavy; it weighs like your words
and starvation,
the kind that swells the lips

A gray so low it is painful,
the damp salt in the air and a
winter to wash tears

my throat is thick. i see
the cruelty of men
the things that keep me sick and sleepless; children
in a grave of many, or coffins too big
the man who bled himself
the woman who stepped into traffic—and but for loud wailing, the rending of your
garments, you are silent in days,
just days. maybe once a yeari do fear by *Judah-Leonardo
Carpe Diem
I emerge from nothingness.

The sun has risen in its way;
today will be a marvelous day.

As I take my first step the sun is tall;
today I will strive to do it all;
unwavering, I'll grow and will not fall.

I sit at my computer loaded for bear.
I sit at my computer, replete with thought and will.
I sit at my computer, mind full of air.
The sun travels higher and higher still.

The sun's path begins to falter.
Forgot to eat breakfast; and lunch to boot.
I eat while watching a movie; and another;
whether the day has been wasted is moot,
I must resume writing my chapter.

I sit at my computer loaded for bear.
I sit at my computerCarpe Diem by ~AspiredWriter
Fuji in MarchI stood in quiet shock on the mountain
Before me lay the miles of silence
Land washed clean of everything,
Gliding upon a muddy surge
Of heaving breathing westward destruction.

It came from our east
From the rolling turning earth
That hoisted sea and house and life
Upwards towards the other side
Of the tearing streaming westward destruction.

The land mass rocked and the hills
Slipped away; deep down into the liquid terror.
The barreling strength that whisked this way
With my surf to my feet, my roots,
Forging blindly screaming it's inaudible westward destruction.Fuji in March by ~Cassy772
2011 Re-Vision Contest
Formerly Featured Artists
SojournerRevisited 10/28/2012 - Read by disrhythmic HERE.

I.

Salt in the cemetery licked at the lacking and
Lacquered ribcages of centuries old hulls—
Hulls and albatrosses overhead like
Broken ribs and severed sternums.

Masts akimbo and off-kilter, wood stained
To the marrow by the fresh saltwater from the shore
Of the Aral Sea; beached, sunk in the speckled
Sand, like the words of a guilted verdict,
A flotilla of past-flown ships and craft
Plunge further into the pebbles and topsoil.

The decay of humanity and humus emergent,
Each vessel was a well-rested relic reliant on
The sun to circumnavigate the pearlescent skies,
For the veSojourner by ^NicSwaner
A Textual AnnealingA thousand thousand generations
misinterpreting the lightning,

A tumult of attempts, many
mumblings while we burn - each time
most is lost, some survives.

At the whistle of illusion that awakens,
day drops dream on me. I am
thick with swerve: If there are giants
there is a world they walk on.

And for the final faith
to be an inversion: We are
the electricity lunging toward the sky.A Textual Annealing by ~ExistenceWeSummonYou
name-keeper.she remembers other lives:
fragments of myriad pasts
that might once have been her own.

they shift, like shards in a kaleidoscope;

catch the light
and s p l i n t e r a memory
into bright and broken chaos

of galaxies spun
from shivering mirages of worlds long-gone
and the glitter-glass symphony
of wind-chimes, gently stirred
by passing ghosts

wakened from unslumber
and dragged, blind and weary
cross time-worn trails, forever trapped
in a music-box waltz
to her wretched sigh[and someone else's elegy.]
and she's the girl watching, holding fast

by silken, poisoned threads
by a plea, a promise
to let go the silvered whispername-keeper. by ~Avallynh
CoppersmithI caught a sun gold.

Trembling old in my cupped palm, quiet copper,
as my rage on our queen, for so crippling me.  

And how too did I rail –
against you, Cyprian beloved?

Understand: I grow too old
for bows and arrows, Eros.Coppersmith by =Vigilo
Formerly Featured Artists
Prompt Folder
the bride THE BRIDE

The church bells ring and the birds fly fast. She looks around the empty street...silence.. It made her tummy coil. Her butterflies banging around in her stomach. What was she doing here? What was she thinking?
The orchestra begin their song. It's time. She pushes her fears away and plants a smile on her pink lips, takes a deep breath, then steps inside, beginning her walk  down the aisle. Her butterflies fly away one by one as she looks up at the man waiting for her at the front. And her smile turns real, as her large mossy green yes meet the man's deep, loving brown one's. She looks back to the floor, taking each step slowly athe bride by ~its-ash-yo
As The Sky Went BloodyThe Sky Was Bleeding, The Day My Doorbell Rang.
a somber, hooded man stood looming over my door frame.
staring, he grinned a mangled, twisted smile.
he stated "another life is claimed today".
blankly confused, I said
"Tis a Shame"

News ticker at the bottom of a T.V screen "THIS MORNING AT 8:00 A.M"

The Sky Was Bleeding, The Day The Thunder Came.
the Hooded man grabbed a soda and sat on a sofa
while I lay perplexed, under my blanket of fresh earth.
the lack of atmosphere was stifling
and I felt all my air seep from my lungs
"Twas a Shame"

News ticker at the bottom of a T.V screen "A YOUNG WOMAN WAS FOUND"

The Sky Was Bleeding, TAs The Sky Went Bloody by ~knucks838
Three Small WordsI often cried for you.
You often left me.

I once loved you.
You once said
"I love you".

I thought "I love you"
Would make everything okay.
You thought lying
Would make everything okay.

It was hard for me when you said good-bye.
It was easy for you when you ran off with her.

I've heard you've been asking of me.
You've heard I've moved on.

I got a life.
You came to suck it out of me.

You try to say the words that
Use to make everything okay.
I say the three small words
That will make everything okay.

JUST GO AWAY.Three Small Words by ~lizzie6376
The Best I Can DoWhen you both started that conversation,
The one that would end 2 years of your life,
You couldn't have known what was coming;
But you took it like a pro.  Bye bye, wife.
Slow, rational, mourning followed by action,
You stood strong and fearless to show your integrity.
What you couldn't see on the other side of that phone,
Her eyes shone a red, white, and blue so pretty;
And she was looking anywhere but at you boy.

She quit you like school, never going back.
Can't you let her go; chop chop her out?
Of course not, your eyes sparkled like that diamond.
Even though history fills you with doubt,
Suffer righteously, leave her alone, aThe Best I Can Do by *mellowghost
Prompt Folder

Featured

MEi. I fell in love with a girl who catalogued darkness,
sat in her room with the blinds closed and wrote down
187 ways it felt
in all of the different times she couldn't see.
My name was one of them,
#143, ash velvet, and I didn't know what she meant at the time
but the only description she wrote beneath it
was good night for stuffed animals
bad night for worn pillows.

And I'm sorry I made you dream of the rivers.

ii. I fell in love with a girl who never looked in the mirror
but dressed to perfection, somehow
in her blue skirt and black socks
white tennis shoes
and a smile crooked as the bottom side of Indiana –
yeah, I ME by ~winterkate
81 Comments
Astronauti.238,900 miles away
the Earth gleams in the darkness.
A cat's eye, opalescent blue
flecked with terra verdant,
fifty-two cream colors
of cloud.

Under a heavy lid of night,
it glares. Angry.
Baleful.

As if to say to the Sun:
I was dreaming
of all the fish
in my seas.
As if to ask why
it had to be woken.

ii.
Thoughts are protozoan here;
with glass-thin skin
transparent as the first lie
he ever told as a child.
No,

I didn't steal that candy bar.

He can see the mechanics,
the workings,
the insides.
They divide like dreams,
impossibly smoothly,
Whole and unbroken
as they tear apart. If
he could stretch far eAstronaut by ~winterkate
74 Comments
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat –
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.

You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.

If not, try and see tVolpi. by ~winterkate
76 Comments
THAT POEM (Writer's Block)I sat down at my computer last Thursday night
with the full intention of writing THAT POEM. Oh, don't
play dumb. You know what THAT POEM is. We all know
what THAT POEM is. You with the cigarette train-tracks
charting your eternal drift to nowhere
on the insides of your arms, you
with the sludge of alcohol dripping thick & brown through
veins swollen & slow & pussy as zombies, you
with the eight children whose faces you can't remember
& the husband in the Hamptons whose name you sometimes forget
& the lover who never seems to come around as much as you pay him to – you
all know what THAT POEM

is. It's the rhythm beating a dullTHAT POEM (Writer's Block) by ~winterkate
113 Comments
Poem for the TransgenderedAnd I am not one of you, but
I know what it's like
to want to crawl out of your own skin.

I am not one of you, but
I want to shed this 173.2-pound body, I want
to hear the smack, the boom, the crash
as it hits the floor and moulds gray, I want to see
the bruise flowers write blue and purple obituaries across my white skin
before it dissolves into garden soil, I want
my body to, for once, create something beautiful.

And I am not one of you but
sometimes I have wanted to cut off all my hair.
To lop off this shit stream that's coursing down my back,
to bury it in the back and become some
pixie/lesbian/dyke/whore/boy
I have nePoem for the Transgendered by ~winterkate
35 Comments
Scream by ~winterkate
55 Comments
Artist Discretionbreak

Oh,
Muse,
Please
No.

I don't want to I can't let me go leave me alone Ican't Ican't Ican't not knowing
all of the things
He will do
to make me
a beauty
all of the things
He will do
to make meArtist Discretion by ~winterkate
18 Comments
submit'submit art'
the button says,
lingering at the bottom of the screen
so small & blue, a bruise beneath
fragile skin.

i look at it,
mouse over it
again
feeling the tension in my thumb
the weight of time
the emptiness of my mind.
8:48 at night
and i have nothing to submit
except myself. submit by ~winterkate
17 Comments
Bilingualismyo conozco la miel de tu piel – cuando we
rushed like languages leaping al triunfo y gloria
en los barrios pequeños, in the cities
of train tracks  & half-cracked leyes de reyes lunáticos –
entonces yo entenderé treinta degrees of your heat,
of española y las lenguages half-filtered,
streaming like water sobre sidewalks after rain.

always toungues twine la misma en amor.
nosotros somos el tren carrying ten thousand dreamers west,
y yo te amaría en a thousand lenguas.Bilingualism by ~winterkate
28 Comments
what if this was the song of myself?1. god laced your eyes with opium
stitched them shut with cotton fog. wake, love – cough
like a gunshot, breathe
like the blood eagle
has been carved into you. time didn't mean
to blind the moon's great eye, to
collapse it into the static horizon.
my lips can no longer pronounce the word mercy. wake,
love. please.
just breathe.

2. the days crack like porcelain dolls
under my father's boots. there are skulls
hidden in the cabinets, & shadows too, hung in the closet
like thin-pressed coats.
like suicide.

3. razor, rohypnol, rope. bathroom,
bedroom,
basement. if i touch all three
before i leave
i won't pick one upwhat if this was the song of myself? by ~winterkate
20 Comments
:iconstardivider1plz::iconstardivider3plz:
:iconwinterkate:
~winterkate

January 2013
:iconstardivider1plz::iconstardivider3plz:

Every month, our judges select a deviant who exemplifies the qualities espoused by the group: dedication, creative spark, and a willingness to practice and improve their craft. This gallery houses a selection of the works produced by our current Featured Deviant of the Month. Please take the time to browse the work of this talented deviant, as well as those of our previously featured members. And don't forget to comment and favourite if you like what you see!
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STOP: READ THIS BEFORE JOINING OR SUBMITTING

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Rules and Guidelines.

- 1 -
Above all else, respect your fellow deviants. #TalentedWritersGuild is a place for the collection, discussion, encouragement, and improvement of high quality literature. To truly achieve this goal we must all work together to create a safe and positive environment conducive to personal and creative growth. As such, inflammatory or violent behavior, personal attacks, and disrespect will not be tolerated. Intelligent debates and level critiques, however, are warmly welcomed as long as the participating/receiving deviants are open to them.

- 2 -
Select only your best work for submission. All work must be literature-based. You are also more than welcome to submit the work of other deviants as well. If you see a quality piece that deserves more recognition, please send it our way!


- 3 -
Please understand that your work will be subject to a judging process. Not all work makes it through. This does not mean that your piece is "bad." Please respect the judges' decisions and do not harass them. Belligerent or violent behavior will result in banning. See below for a further discussion of the judging process.

- 4 -
Submissions are limited to two poems and one prose piece per week, and two chaptered submissions per month (i.e. biweekly). This is to ensure quality rather than quantity. Anything in excess of this will be automatically declined. All piece must be submitted to the appropriate folder. Incorrectly submitted pieces will be automatically denied.

- 5 -
The only form of literature we will not consider is fan fiction. This is not a judgment on the art of fan writing. Rather, it is simply because our judges are not familiar enough with the vast variety of fandoms out there to be able to properly judge the work. Please see here for a further discussion of the reasoning behind this decision.

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The judges here at #TalentedWritersGuild are: =OritPetra, ~nngross, =LadyofGaerdon, =angeljunkie, =angelStained =AzizrianDaoXrak, ~Emocinderella, `LadyLincoln, =QuiEstInLiteris, and ~Vigilo. This team was carefully selected to bring together deviants with differing literary styles, approaches, and preferences. This has and does promote active behind-the-scenes discussion on the pieces we receive, culminating in a voting process that involves the careful consideration of each and every piece's strengths and weaknesses. If, for example, we are not certain how we would like to vote on a certain piece, we will discuss it with each other, reaching a decision through teamwork, critical analysis, and, sometimes, gut feelings and intuition. This helps to alleviate some of the difficulties that arise from the esoteric and subjective nature of deciding what constitutes 'quality' literature.

To pass into our gallery, every submission, including those of the admins, are subjected to a 3 yes/ no vote. We ask you to keep this in mind if your piece is declined. A rejection does not mean that your piece is not 'quality literature.' It simply means that three admins voted 'no' on it. Two of us very well could have voted 'yes' and, indeed, submissions often come down to the wire like this. Rejection is a part of writing, both here and (even more so) professionally, and we request that you accept this before deciding to submit your work for consideration. If your work is declined, please do not take offense, argue the decision, or behave disrespectfully towards the judges. We make our decisions carefully, and as long as you appreciate that, we'll get on famously.

All decisions made on submissions are final, but we do encourage you to seek out critique and resubmit after changes have been made.

Thank you for your interest in #TalentedWritersGuild. We hope to read your pieces, see you around, and get to know you. Take care and be well.

:iconstardivider1plz::iconstardivider2plz::iconstardivider3plz:

TWG's Featured Deviant of the Month - January 2013

Fri Jan 4, 2013, 9:49 PM


:wave: Hello, dearest members! =LadyofGaerdon here to continue our series:

Featured Deviant of the Month 


 for

 :icontalentedwritersguild:

 January's Featured Deviant is..........:eager:

 
:iconstardivider1plz::iconstardivider3plz:

#TalentedWritersGuild is a literature group committed to the encouragement, collection, and archival of high quality prose and poetry works. To find out more about the group, please click here.


 Here at #TalentedWritersGuild, we encourage deviants to select only their best pieces of literature for submission. As judges, we look for pieces that simultaneously move us, challenge us, and inspire us as readers; pieces that stimulate us emotionally and intellectually; and the pieces that display true technical skill. When we vote, we consider all these things, and let only the pieces we deem up to snuff through to our gallery. This pushes our submitters to excel, challenge themselves, and improve their craft, and provides our readers with high quality literature to read. 


The Featured Deviant of the Month is a member whose submissions meet and surpass this criteria.   

:icontalentedwritersguild:

~winterkate is a new and highly promising young addition to our literature community. Her words are filled with passion and utilized meticulously, to create thought-provoking, highly satisfying poetry.

 ~winterkate has 15 pieces in our gallery to date! They are all wonderful and I encourage you to check them out.




to a womanYou see it coming from the men.
You see the ways their eyes linger on you
When they're looking around the room
The way their bodies brush yours when you're walking through the hallways to class
The way they stutter and look away when apologizing for the accidental contact of skin to skin
You see it coming from the men.
You never see it coming from me.

God, was the world not complicated enough already
Without causing me to notice the interplay of textures in her hands
The calluses like mahogany mountains carving ridges of stone
Into her palms softer than Impressionistic sunlight?
I'm not supposed to feel this way about another woman
In the words of ~SCFrankles:
A piece about unexpected and mostly-unrequited love.
This blew me away. The maturity of the
writing, the evocative imagery, the
contained emotion. Very, very moving.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


Poem for the TransgenderedAnd I am not one of you, but
I know what it's like
to want to crawl out of your own skin.

I am not one of you, but
I want to shed this 173.2-pound body, I want
to hear the smack, the boom, the crash
as it hits the floor and moulds gray, I want to see
the bruise flowers write blue and purple obituaries across my white skin
before it dissolves into garden soil, I want
my body to, for once, create something beautiful.

And I am not one of you but
sometimes I have wanted to cut off all my hair.
To lop off this shit stream that's coursing down my back,
to bury it in the back and become some
pixie/lesbian/dyke/whore/boy
I have ne
In the words of =AzizrianDaoXrak:
This piece is about a topic that is very close to MY heart,
and though other members of the trans community may
find that it doesn't quite hit their experiences on the nose,
there are moments, to me, where she gets it exactly rights:
To keep scrubbing till you could pick locks with my tibias, till
my bones are small enough and sharp enough
to sew myself back together with
And above and beyond these moments of terrible, painful beauty,
she treats the topic with respect, compassion, and a
sense of being kindred spirits, and for all this I am grateful.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


Artist Discretionbreak

Oh,
Muse,
Please
No.

I don't want to I can't let me go leave me alone Ican't Ican't Ican't not knowing
all of the things
He will do
to make me
a beauty
all of the things
He will do
to make me
In the words of =LadyofGaerdon:
Poor splintered-up poem! A creative look at the
way a poem might feel about the rather brutal
treatment it often receives at the hands of its creator. 
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat –
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.

You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.

If not, try and see t
In the words of `thetaoofchaos:
It is not a locale that has magic, danger, depth or purpose
as much as it is a catalyst to shake those things alive within us.
With this poem, the writer delivers such a place, both
outside and in, and with rare skill. 
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


what if this was the song of myself?1. god laced your eyes with opium
stitched them shut with cotton fog. wake, love – cough
like a gunshot, breathe
like the blood eagle
has been carved into you. time didn't mean
to blind the moon's great eye, to
collapse it into the static horizon.
my lips can no longer pronounce the word mercy. wake,
love. please.
just breathe.

2. the days crack like porcelain dolls
under my father's boots. there are skulls
hidden in the cabinets, & shadows too, hung in the closet
like thin-pressed coats.
like suicide.

3. razor, rohypnol, rope. bathroom,
bedroom,
basement. if i touch all three
before i leave
i won't pick one up
In the words of =LadyofGaerdon:
This is horror in the best way -
the creeping, psychological skin-crawling way.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 

:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 

:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 









Stephanie - Collab(I wrote us in free verse over every inch
              of your tattered surface ).

you were the beatific grin
of a kindergartener high off oxygen,
mouth stretched wide as the entrance to hell,
black tongue bleeding virtuous sin like ichor.

(You taught me praying was for the weak
     as I fell for your gypsum nails,
              white teeth scrabbling over my chalkboard frame).

scribbled flesh tells no love story
but three layers of skin
worn thin along the length of our feverish bones.

(Garden flowers tucked away worms and dirt,
     my ribs hoarded misspellings of my mother's name).

dipping your origami limbs into my ink
In the words of =LadyofGaerdon:
A gorgeous example of a well-executed
collaboration, in which each artists' skills
and styles blend into and complement
each other in perfect synchronicity.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


Please check out our Featured Gallery, which shall be hosting all of ~winterkate's submitted works. Please also peruse her gallery for yet more awesomeness and remind her of what an amazing writer she is. Oh yes, and please :+fav: this article to spread the word!


 Until next time...

The :icontalentedwritersguild: Team: :iconladyofgaerdon: :iconangeljunkie: :iconazizriandaoxrak: :iconnngross: :iconoritpetra: :iconladylincoln: :iconquiestinliteris: :iconvigilo: :iconemocinderella: :iconangelstained:


14 Comments
TWG's Featured Deviant of the Month - January 2013 January 4 14 Comments 7 Favourites
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:iconjackdenim17:
~JackDenim17 May 6, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Ah, how long would a deviant normally expect to wait to hear back about an entry? :meow:
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:iconquiestinliteris:
=QuiEstInLiteris May 7, 2013  Professional Writer
That depends largely on the individual piece - how much discussion goes into the acceptance process, whether the piece is really extraordinary or really sub-par or somewhere in between - but also on the mods' real-life schedules. It takes three votes to accept or reject a piece, so if people happen to be more than usually busy, it can take a while. We do try to get to all submissions before they expire, though.
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:iconjackdenim17:
~JackDenim17 May 8, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you ^^ This isn't my way of asking you to hurry up or anything, just that if it's going to take awhile I'd rather know than continue to think it could be any day now every day for a month.
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:iconquiestinliteris:
=QuiEstInLiteris May 8, 2013  Professional Writer
I can understand that. :)
I think our expiration time is one month. We try to vote on all pieces within that time, so look for a decision within one month.
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:iconohineedtea:
=OHiNeedTea May 3, 2013  Student Writer
Hi,
I featured you in my journal: [link]
:thumb369454006:
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