Memorial Day The woman pressed her face against the headstone. As tears left her eyes they met the cool hard granite and slid down into the grass. She thought of him, the one she'd lost. His face was right in front of her, she could see it. His mouth was split into a grin that took up his whole face. He laughed and reached a hand out to her. She sobbed, knowing it was her mind playing tricks on her. He was gone, and no amount of fantasizing would bring him back to her. She would never feel his arms around her again, or know the joy of waking up next to him every day. Her salty tears blurred her vision as she looked down at the wedding ring on her hand. Her heart stumbled, and she half hoped she'd die right there so she could join him. A tug on her pant leg reminded her of her reasons for staying. She looked over and saw her twin girls looking at her.Memorial Day by littlemp
"Mommy, why are we here? I don't see Daddy a
SerenitySitting gently on a hill,Serenity by littlemp
Letting the wind tug at her hair,
Peacefully she closes her eyes,
Listening to the sound of birdsong.
She lays her head on a pillow of clover,
In and out, she breathes in its clean scent.
Sleep overtakes her quickly,
Nothing disturbs her slumber.
A bird hums a quiet tune.
In its notes you hear her name.
She opens her eyes slowly,
Sweetly she smiles, sighing at the sky.
"Serenity," the bird whisper.
"Serenity," the heavens echo.
"Serenity," the wind whistles.
"Her name," they mutter, "is Serenity."
4th of July D.C. woke up smiling. Today was the Fourth of July! She was so happy! It had been 237 years since the United States of America had become a country. She could hear America humming “The Star Spangled Banner” downstairs while he cooked breakfast. This was the only day of the year that he did. He was probably making waffles with strawberry syrup, whipped cream, and blueberries, so that even the waffles would be red, white, and blue. She stretched and got ready, slipping on an Old Navy flag shirt and jean shorts. She tied her hair back in a half ponytail and ran downstairs. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she tackled America yelling, “HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY!”4th of July by littlemp
He laughed and hugged her, replying, “And to you too!” D.C. saw she’d been r
Every Book Opens a DoorA woman stood in a roomEvery Book Opens a Door by littlemp
From where she was standing she could see so many doors
Millions of doors to new worlds
Worlds where she could be a knight of the Round Table,
A wizard learning magic,
Or a young detective solving crimes.
Each world was diverse and unique.
She opened one door,
Into the world she had chosen.
When she was done with the world she had chosen
She shut the door.
And put the book back on the shelf.
Every book opens a door.
How to Write Helpful Critiques/ FeedbackNow that I have been looking at several literature pieces a week, there aren't a whole lot of comments that provide the writers with feedback. So here's a guide that I thought might be useful for some people on how to provide helpful feedback and critiques.How to Write Helpful Critiques/ Feedback by SpriteBlayde
Before I begin, I would like to say that I have been a part of a wonderful writing group for the past four years. The writing club is where I first learned how to do a critique. I have also been taught some critique techniques during my college studies. In addition to the writing club and college classes, I have been doing my best to leave helpful feedback and critiques here on deviantART. This guide is based entirely off of my personal experience. As I think of more tips, I will be editing this guide.
Make sure to respond to any questions they have asked in the artist's descriptions.
Be sure to find out how experienced they are a
Evening Ballad -- CShattered clocks,Evening Ballad -- C by camelopardalisinblue
and grains of sand
as the shrieks of owls
ricochet in the sky,
and the smile in your shoulders
is a sleeping silhouette
of whispers; constellations
for the gods in the stars.
The looming trees below
creak and sough
howl their agony to the moon,
a night song of sussuration
and substance. You,
asleep, and beautiful, and full
are your own aria.