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Literature
Somewhere in Colorado
The girl is half dreaming.
Only half, because it is something she almost remembers.
It is a cold day, very late in the spring or early in the summer. The wind tears through her jacket, and even walking in the sun does not help. The man has been leading her across valleys and ridges for hours, and it is far past lunchtime. Her back aches from the pack the man gave her that morning, and what feels like blisters upon blisters cover her feet.
"We should be close," the man mutters. He is frustrated, and glares at his map.
The girl is silent. She does not know where they are going. But she does know they are in Colorado. She peeked at the road signs as she dozed in the back seat of the rented car.
They are looking for something. Whatever it is, the something is far away from any towns, and hidden somewhere among the mountains. The girl decides she does not like mountains up close. The man has stopped, and is staring at his map. The girl frowns suddenly; there is something off, something odd
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Literature
Origin
Mr. Croup was once a fox.
It was so very long ago that he can barely remember the feel of his red fur, of pine needles under his paws, the smell of rain in his sharp nose. He can recall the way in which he prowled his territory – the little patch of forest he called his own – fiercely and diligently from the time he was a kit only months old to the year in which humans came.
This is when Mr. Croup heard his first word.
Language was such a foreign delight. To think that humans used tongues, teeth, and lips to push these words out into the world to express thought, feeling and opinion. The range was well beyond the bark, wail, and gekkering of a fox.
Mr. Croup was fascinated, enamored, intrigued.
A world of endless expression lay before him, with ever-changing tongues and new expressions. What communication!
And so began Mr. Croup's transformation. A fox's tongue is useful for many things, but speech escapes his snout with clumsy grace. Mr. Croup would not settle for such injus
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Literature
Crocodile Clock
Adults have no desire to look within their drawers of dreams; it is nothing more than a tangled pile of possibilities and broken hopes for so many long past childhood and youth.
Wendy Darling has reached the age at which she must put her fancies away; after all, dreams have no place in a practical, responsible and perfectly proper young woman's life.
And Wendy is quite the picture of a practical, responsible and proper woman.
She stands on the cusp of youth and adulthood. She is deemed a young woman quite ready to begin her adult life.
Her family is proud of her, and they know she shall make an attentive wife someday. Marriage is the natural course of a proper young lady, (or so Wendy is often told).
They have all forgotten what Wendy was once like. The child Wendy was adventurous and bright, and the worlds she lived in were colored in the boldest of hues. Wendy can no longer shine so brightly as the boys can fly.
Of all her brothers, only Michael remembers the Wendy that flew to Never
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Literature
Dolores
Dolores
The sea roars, crashes, and rasps along the sand.
Dolores, shivering and goose-fleshed, averts her eyes.
She stands on brine-rotted boards, facing the sky.
In the sound she can hear her name, a summons that leaves her stiff.
She creeps closer on creaking boards.
Early morning light rushes across the shoreline.
The breath in her lungs catches like shards of glass in the lace of nerves.
The sea roars, crashes, and rasps along the sand.
Dolores was seven when she first saw the sea.
It was cool; fog hung over the beach, and gulls shrieked above.
As her toes sunk into the sand, she heard the siren call.
The sea boomed out her stolen name, the waves swelled.
The salt spray against the cliffs was a knell to Death.
And on this shore she met him, and was allowed to tarry for a time.
The sea roars, crashes, and rasps along the sand.
Dolores has a view of the sea above her kitchen sink.
Today the siren sound called her from her bed.
She watches the sea change color to reflect the sky and
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Literature
Frustration
Frustration festers deep within and roils like acid in the stomach.
It rushes and burns its way up the gullet, and the aftertaste is bitter with the dredges of anger and tears.
The feeling blazes through veins once hot with blood, and ignites a fire in fingers that curl and clench.
Frustration is the first sign in a façade of friendship that will flatline in some near time.
I've had enough.
This is the first phase of good-bye and good riddance.
Soon you will be nothing more than a momentary ache I've soothed away.
Distance will be the beginning of my recovery.
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Literature
Mermaid
When I
dived deep
down
into the
bottom
of the pool,
I sat there
like seaweed,
barely anchored
and blowing in
an undersea
breeze.
The briny
depths had
swallowed me
whole. The
murky water
distorted the
world above.
But my
air ran out,
and I burst
into a new world
of purple sky
and noise,
so different from
the deep silence
of the murky dark.
For a
moment,
I thought
I was a
mermaid.
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Literature
I Loved You Once
I loved you once.
It was not so long ago –
years have passed,
but the impression
lingers.
Bitter and bruised,
my memories of you
are like apples –
buried and  forgotten
at the bottom of
the bowl.
When I unearth them,
the only worth they have
is the remembrance of
their brilliant red skin.
I loved you once.
I haven't changed much
from who I was when I
knew you, but
the feelings have fallen
away.
There are new apples
in my bowl –
of shiny skin and
fresh scent, the taste
is so much sweeter.
When I think of you
now, I throw out my
browned apples;
there are new ones
budding on trees in
sunlit orchards
somewhere.
I loved you once.
But I love you no longer.
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Literature
Death and Friends
You and I haven't met yet.
We saw each other today for the first time. It was just a glance, a brush against each other. It was only a moment, but a profound one for you.
You will be a different man from what you were yesterday, and what you are today.
Perhaps you will not even notice the change. That's alright. I still know.
We will meet again someday – you will even know my name then.
Sounds a bit like Fate, or Destiny, doesn't it? It's not quite that. Not at all, really.
It's just plain fact.
Wherever your road may take you, we'll meet again. Doesn't matter how long it takes, either.
And yes, I am sure we will. It is only ever a matter of time.
While I wait, I'll spend the time with all my other friends.
I look forward to you joining us one day.
When the time comes, I will be there to show you the way; there is no need for you to worry about where we will meet, and where we will go.
I look forward to getting to know you better along the way.
This is not ineffable – it's in
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Literature
Stray Words
Stray Words
Blankly, I
hold out my left hand:
my calluses are stained by black
ink.
My room has a view –
I release my daydreams through
written words out of
the window.
Humming off-key
I journey in ships that do
indeed resemble books
to Far Away
Sometimes I
wish for the leisurely elegance of a
Jane Austen novel: problems resolve
so happily.
My "I", in
a constant state of becoming,
changes with the
tide, as
Ink, smudged by
a trailing palm, adds character  
to the page,
accidentally.
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Literature
Wet Halloween
Rain slaps the pavement -
enough to flood the gutters, and
fish swim in leaves and debris.
Children spill onto porches
faintly lit by glowing pumpkins,
pillowcases ready.
Mothers and fathers follow,
delighting in their fairies and monsters
this sodden night.
Frantic, the children flash
from house to house seeking treats
before the rain
Washes them away
like the autumn leaves whirling in
the gutters.
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Literature
Death of the Paperback
Death of the Paperback
A piece of prime
real estate was cleared in homage
for what may be a future relic:
"Words take wing in North Beach"
as eyes roller-skate around in wonder,
the only mood delight.
Pages flap and obfuscate the sky
as the words rasp along the pavement like
the sound a rattlesnake makes in agitated warning:
An end is at hand they seem to insinuate by
their lifeless state smudged in concrete.
Never before did I
believe that new book /old book
smell, sweeter than fudge, would
disappear.
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Activity


deviantID

StrayWords
needs motivation
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
Current Residence: California

Comments


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:iconlaurahollingsworth:
LauraHollingsworth Featured By Owner May 24, 2013  Professional Digital Artist
Thanks for the fav! :la:
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:iconchricko:
chricko Featured By Owner Feb 3, 2013
Thanks for fav!
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:iconwindemo:
Windemo Featured By Owner Jul 31, 2012
Riss!! =) I just saw your comment on my page today. Goes to show how much I actually check my Deviantart page haha
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:iconstraywords:
StrayWords Featured By Owner Jul 31, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Pretty much :) Oh, saw your Sailor Moon pic - very nice!
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:iconmoninaca:
moninaca Featured By Owner Apr 20, 2010
You know what? I don't have any deviantpoints to give you a llama so I am giving you one through text....



LLAMA!!!!
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:iconshattered-horizon:
Shattered-Horizon Featured By Owner Apr 18, 2010
Thanks for the favorite!
Reply
:iconshattered-horizon:
Shattered-Horizon Featured By Owner Apr 18, 2010
Make that, favorites!
Reply
:iconmoninaca:
moninaca Featured By Owner Apr 8, 2010
Hey!!!!! How's it going?
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:iconwhitebook:
WhiteBook Featured By Owner Mar 23, 2010
:iconmaxtess: :iconfaven1: :icondancedanceplz:
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:iconstarduskdreams:
StarDuskDreams Featured By Owner Mar 13, 2010  Student General Artist
Thank you so much for the fave! :heart:

Welcome to D.A as well =P!
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