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 | #Lit-Visual-AllianceEncouraging Artistic Cooperation |
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Countdown to End of Winter Alliance Contest!| The contest has ended. Thanks to all those who participated and we'll have the results out soon! (If it's still March 1st somewhere on the planet, you can still get your entry in.) |
fille de la brume bleue -daughter of the (+audio)fille de la brume bleue -daughter of the (+audio) by =Wordeea
(scroll down for English)
fille de la brume bleue
tour à tour putain et blanche vierge
et le bûcher et l’écorchée
je fus immonde, je fus cruelle
- une sorcière parmi tant d’autres
celle qui parle, celle qui se tait
qui doucement danse dans la poussière
d’étoiles mortes à coeur de ciel
- une déesse aux mains de sel
aimez-moi
d’une seule coulée
sans amertume ou arrières-pensées
aimez-moi folie, aimez-moi rivière ...
moi, fille de la brume bleue
- une sorcière bien ordinaire
----------
daughter of the blue mist
in turns a whore and purest virgin
as the pyre or as the scorched
i have been vile, i have been cruel
-
| Our Featured folder showcases literature inspired by visual artwork and visual artwork inspired by literature. |
The Call of the MermaidsFramed in a flowery frame isThe Call of the Mermaids by ~Pr0metheusUnb0und
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.
Towards the WindmillWe live on a dead islandTowards the Windmill by ~Pr0metheusUnb0und
swirled about a stoney mound
with corpses in its heart;
in the midst of a sea of green
bare trees are littered,
and peak from roofless houses
with burned foundations.
And beneath the smokey sun
an army of black sapplings stirs;
followers of the rusted beast
conducted upon a fallen log
that bleeds before their roots;
to smother his spouse the cypress
and their cones in their cradles.
The bent weeds watch as they
are watched and avoided
so plastic flowers are smelled
- the litter of the false nature.
In a garden where blind sunflowers
guard the molded prison,
tainted shells hide venomous pearls;
they drip on imp
The ArchiveOld ambered men,The Archive by ~Pr0metheusUnb0und
rotting in vanilla,
are bounded together
and numbered
in open coffins.
And a mist of dust
protrudes through
their wooden prison;
conspiring with the
ever tempting dark
shining from above.
White paper roses bud
below ladders that end
where shadows begin;
there silk webs spread
over this waste of heads
that thrust upwards
towards the bars.
A Farewell to the Mosquito that Eats at My Heart1. Do svidanyaA Farewell to the Mosquito that Eats at My Heart by =AzizrianDaoXrak
Underbrush sprouts only in spring but I have felt in my heart
familiar new-bud prickles, and feared your hemlock heart.
It is still winter, dear who will only ever be a fleeting deer.
In hunting-season, you were a fleet and antler-crowned hart.
Winter is another kind of desert, white like feathers, not for
weddings—tree-boned fingers make only cages for hearts.
I try to imagine snow as dandelion tufts, try to picture you
like linden blooms upon my eyelashes, upon my muddy heart.
But neither of us is so gentle, deer, and it is the deadly winter
that will poison us, that white-washes our fleet-footed hearts.
Pretty is
He Remembers 1961He always puts extra steaks on the grill,He Remembers 1961 by ~RussianTim
in case the neighbors stop by.
It’s not that kind of world anymore.
The wind was the only visitor that night
and it assumed an odor of burning leaves.
He thought about all the funerals he had
attended and he thought about Hurricane Jenny.
The sun’s last breath felt like thunder.
A child yelled “Olly olly oxen free” but
to him it sounded like “All your friends die in Spring.”
Brass CupcakeOh when the world is whimsical andBrass Cupcake by ~Toaster-Omlette
soda springs bubble forth in brownie-lines
from cracks in candy-coated rocks then
the brass cupcakes will march across the land
on invisible sock-footsies and bask
in the day-glo sunshine...
When the world is muddle-wonderful and
the knitting is always knotted with the
dewy spiders-webs and clovers are tangled
up in spinning mush room rings then
the copper spaghetti strands will float
above the colander and poke octopus-holes
in the ceiling and cover us up
with plaster dust...
When the world is flutter-licious and balloons
stay on board while the trees all fly away
with the wind in their br
| The most inspiring literature we can find is collected in this folder. Just begging for visual accompaniment! |
| The most inspiration visual art we can find is collected here. Just begging for written companions! |
Hello my admirable Allies! It's time again to showcase more of the excellent Allied Artwork pieces that have been making their way into our 
inspired by 
inspired by 
Polishing VenusI wear a blue plastic retainer at night. It's painful, tight on my teeth, as if my mouth has outgrown it. I don't put it in often enough, so the shape of my jaw twists and changes, until I remember how much I despised braces and consent to slip it in, and I lie awake at night, loathing the imperfection of my teeth and the ache that pulses there as my mouth readjusts to the wires and plastic that force my jaw into the correct position.
I wear glasses too – ugly things, dark maroon on top, with a thin, squishy plastic wire on bottom instead of another rim. Not many people know I have them. When I was a kid, I had the rimless kind – s
The 100 Things That Rammstein Left Behind - 01The 100 Things That Rammstein Left Behind - A Rammstein Fanfiction
Let's face it, you learn a lot through life. Mistakes are lessons too, of course, you learn the best from mistakes.
But really. You'd rather learn without the pain, wouldn't you?
One hundred vignettes of six lives woven into a single story. Till POV throughout - mostly. This is as of June 2012 the darkest thing I've written and is honestly not for the faint of heart; I won't pretend that this isn't offensive. If you don't like death, for one (out of everything else discussed), this fic is not for you. Contains a lot of concepts and incidents that will make you feel uncomfor
The Hottest 30 DaysThe traffic never bothered him until he had nowhere to go.
It took two hours to get across town and he forgot the applications.
There wasn't snow on the ground, so he pulled over
and parked in a tow away zone. He walked around
the center of that city and thought about his father standing in line
with him at the Hartford shopping mall twenty seven years earlier
in the town where he grew up.
Middle-nowhere, Illinois.
It's Christmas time and all of the other children are
pissing themselves with anticipation.
Over the scent of plastic evergreens and candy canes,
his father still smells like motor oil and top shelf bourbon.
The
Tanka Ia swan, snow-feathered,
you seemed, until you molted
to reveal a duck
with feathers like the mountain:
snow melting, lilies blooming
Appetite Comes with the Eating1. The real horror of October
is the winter, the rising darkness.
It's said they caught him weeping,
heard him babbling about the steam in the snow,
the brown mass that had been a person—
his little girl, dead from the cold.
He ate his wife and daughters.
And when the villagers came for him,
he let them take him—to the tree
in the center of the square, where he hung,
discolored with frostbite and gangrene.
They called him Wendigo,
gave him to the spirit of the Dying Season,
and hoped that he would rest.
2. My ancestors had a word for his kind—
Strigoi.
They would have cut out his heart
to stop him from feeding.
Bless the AutumnLet us lie among the autumn leaves
And listen to the whispers made
By the slow-flowing hearts of trees.
Give thanks for fire and woodsmoke
And clandestine caresses under blankets
Piled high beneath the naked oak.
Bless the waning sun and warm chocolate
And the heat of lovers' hands and hearts.
Nightdance and ShadowplayCome on, all you ghosties – let's make one last stand.
Dive through the mirrors of our hands,
wonderland the way we script our souls
into the spine of each woman we love
like an arpeggio, like a broken chord
splitting the night sky of New Orleans
two months after Katrina painted the town.
Blue as the cracked and jagged line that snow-
shuddered mountains draw in the memory of sand
between sky and shattered, the calligraphy of the earth
we lie and say isn't our own, come on, all you ghosties.
Let's pretend that when the glass menageries broke,
they didn't become snow, that every time
the sky writes you a love letter, yo
WaldeinsamkeitA murder of ravens
spits black
on a vermillion coloured day,
as a spine of leaves
crumbles under the pressure
of ghostly weight;
Its pieces of autumn,
borne by a whirling breath,
brush a lonely thought:
This winter will be cold.
Team: 
You are allowed one submission per week.
folder full of nothing but art that reminds me of the book series I'm writing. It's awesome to run across art like that. But it's not exactly what this group is for. I'd suggest doing something like what I do. I “illustrate” my lit submissions with visual art that I think fits well. 
How well the deviation ties into the inspiring piece.
How well the deviation ties into the Winter theme.
+ feature by =
It's coming! I swear! 
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