Amberlouie

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Oculus Drone

The feeling of asphalt beneath her shoes; it felt like danger. More than the lights, the bustling crowds, the trill taste of electricity on the air, it was that faint reverb on her heels that told her she was inside the city. Getting into the city was never a problem. Exhaust systems all along the city wall pumped pollution outside, some more convenient to travel by than others depending on the time of day, giving her a way to bypass security at the main gates. Once inside, however, she was an enemy in the city's midst, just one false step away from being discovered. Even a squat-market camera had the potential to pin her to the city's secur

All

Buckets

i. before I'm 30 I want to die— to be buried Jewish even with the decorations & bodily equations laid out over my skin like tapestries of thought to have "Edge" read by a woman who leapt over the edge of sanity first but held out her hand to help me across the greatest divide to leave my body to the science of nature & all the crows that followed me from home to home, never asking why. ii. before I'm 30 I want to not die— to lick the condensation from the window of my life & see the world clearly for the first time, to be reborn to hear a song that tastes better than a cigarette & all the time I'v

Adoration

rainy day at my university

Eye-feast

Storytelling and Audience

Hey all, So techgnotic (https://www.deviantart.com/techgnotic) has a new article entitled "The Future of Storytelling" which you would have seen pop up in your notices centre. It's a well-written article with quotes from a bunch of different members of the comic, film, game, and book industries. I was asked by techgnotic (https://www.deviantart.com/techgnotic) for some copy to take quotes from, and I obliged with the note you can see below. While I think I was represented more or less correctly, there was a 'but' directly after where the quote from me ends in the article. So I thought I'd reproduce it here so you can see it in its entire context. "Hi techgnotic, Sorry I'm late with replying to this, I've bee

Misc

Rewrite Your First Ever Story Winners!

Thank you so much to everyone who submitted to Anthropology-of-Self (https://www.deviantart.com/anthropology-of-self)'s first ever contest! All the entries turned out so much more amazing than I ever could have expected. Thank you all so much for starting this group out with such an amazing bang! Without further ado: The Winners! First Place :thumb288700800: by zebrazebrazebra (https://www.deviantart.com/zebrazebrazebra) Funny and brash, whimsical and heartfelt--and ridiculous. So wonderfully ridiculous. It's a perfect showcase of a child's imagination brought to life. Second Place :thumb284354204: by angeljunkie (https://www.deviantart.com/angeljunkie) An absolutely engrossing tale. I cannot imagine having thought of anything even marginally like this

Articles

Oculus Drone

The feeling of asphalt beneath her shoes; it felt like danger. More than the lights, the bustling crowds, the trill taste of electricity on the air, it was that faint reverb on her heels that told her she was inside the city. Getting into the city was never a problem. Exhaust systems all along the city wall pumped pollution outside, some more convenient to travel by than others depending on the time of day, giving her a way to bypass security at the main gates. Once inside, however, she was an enemy in the city's midst, just one false step away from being discovered. Even a squat-market camera had the potential to pin her to the city's secur

To Critique

Buckets by schriftsteller, literature

Literature

Buckets

i. before I'm 30 I want to die— to be buried Jewish even with the decorations & bodily equations laid out over my skin like tapestries of thought to have "Edge" read by a woman who leapt over the edge of sanity first but held out her hand to help me across the greatest divide to leave my body to the science of nature & all the crows that followed me from home to home, never asking why. ii. before I'm 30 I want to not die— to lick the condensation from the window of my life & see the world clearly for the first time, to be reborn to hear a song that tastes better than a cigarette & all the time I'v

Queenie by Anthony-Ryan, literature

Literature

Queenie

Lying on the mouthblood rug Queenie listens for daybreak. Combs with her finger a splice through the brimming fishbowl Which she placed beside herself at some point in the night. She wonders what prompts her to see hidden in the black mane of a horse What she loves the most, What lifts her face in the careful dark toward rifts Rather than forms. To listen for something half-sorrowful, half-light. She does not know. The empty window prefaces a fir In a place that contains things fated to entangle Before they fall away.

Knowledge by a-secret-key, literature

Literature

Knowledge

In a fever dream, black dooms descending He lies rapt in stupor. The windows tilt from his halo, the dry heat ticking, each death rattle measures light into reflections- form a periscope. One eye is all that is needed to see. People stutter along streets, gloom draped. Voices soften and stretch, heard through memory and dreaming- one hundred shadowy watchers meld to tarmac. Only one enters. Yard lights convulse, scald twilit moments, birds settling on flares. He blinks, old as time- skin a coral of waxes, leather from his own glow. Eyes, molten yolks still glimmer beneath lids, fat sunken. She watches, notes of orange blossom

Weight by saartha, literature

Literature

Weight

1. Even now it's a long sickness, deep swamps, the filling of empty space with mud. Day after day, this. The body's welling gravity. 2. How strange to dig fingers into the sand and feel the ocean's rough pulse. Into the flesh as well, the ocean there. Little more than the buzz of nerves. I know this. I know this. It seems too much to know. 1b. Nothing eases it. You can't say here is the end, here the beginning, touch it. Pull it to you. Listen, it sounds like a hurt animal. You can only bend at the waist, choke. Feel the heavy cringe in each cell. 2b. My heart wants to be shot of itself but simple things upse

Dear Reader by Anthony-Ryan, literature

Literature

Dear Reader

on the roof simpering with the pigeons i throw sheen after sheen from buckets of paint; you do all the work getting in the way. awnings spattered like lips with the color of kisses shiver and move. and listen to this: the birds open their mouths in the rain spread one wing then another and lean out and over-- the river opens onto salt as the moon blooms like a coin in a fist; lovers part lips while friends part ways. the bartender peels a lime; the doorman pulls at the door while the waitress clears the table. i open a window, you open your eyes: work is making space. here and i have

Wet with Gasoline by sliverofciel, literature

palahnuik by allforhim2, literature

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