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ATTENTION RAD INDIVIDUALS! FFM 2011 is GO!Flash Fiction Month is back for its third year!ATTENTION RAD INDIVIDUALS! FFM 2011 is GO! by Flash-Fic-Month
You know it, you love it, Sign Up Here! and become one of the many amazing FFMers again this year!
Well, wait. Do you know it? Here's what FFM is all about:
The FF in FFM is flash fiction, which we're gonna say is a self-contained, original piece of fiction ranging from 55 to 1000 words.
This is a perfectly manageable length for all kinds of writers and writing-inclined persons, not to mention tons of fun to write.
The M in FFM is the month, July, during which all participants will write one piece of flash fiction every day. Every day! Well, at least as many as they can.
But there's more to that M! So very much more!
FFM is a Commnunity
Last year, over 200 people Signed Up for Flash Fiction Month, and used the tons of
Transliterations: Prompt 7 ResultsLate, but better late than never, and better with a cliche introduction than not at all, here are the results to transliterations' seventh prompt. We asked you to write a new piece of poetry or prose while conforming to a pre-existing musical structure--sonata, ternary, rondo and so on--and you all whinged at us for being cruel and then did it anyway. Go you! We received fifteen submissions in total, exploring forms all the way from the tango to the estampie. Have a read, have a comment, and why not have a listen to some classical music while you're at it?Transliterations: Prompt 7 Results by zebrazebrazebra
So without further ado, here are the:
El pan de la anarquia ++ by berlinBuenosAyres Fugue by Starlace
Ouverture: Tragedie de la vie by KRaven42 The Rumour of Icarus by Opus-T :thumb214579901:
Find more information about this and other prompts at the transliterations blog. Our second contest will
Daily Literature Deviations - June 29th 2011Daily Lit Deviations for June 29th, 2011Daily Literature Deviations - June 29th 2011 by DailyLitDeviations
We are proud to feature today's Daily Literature Deviations!
You can show your support by ing this News Article.
Please comment and the features and congratulate the artists!
For all of the featured artists: If you receive a DD for one
of your pieces featured by DLD please note damina.
We will include you and your piece in a special recognition news article.
Featured by apple-dark
Hope within cancer by Christianonfire7
Many of us have felt the shadow of cancer
cross our lives. Normally, the poetry written
about it portrays the struggle and pain the
illness causes. This poem highlights the
good things in life, tells a sweet story
about life going on, and leaves us with
a sense of peace.
kill_joyshe wears windows on her wrists to hide that hard-earned necklace of bone and cover every angle kissed by an angel on her wretched, ruined, beautiful body.kill_joy by ohsostarryeyed
she is afraid for her soul.
the monsters at night breathe life into her sorry bones, that thin ribbed frame
a skeleton with fingers, a gun with skin.
you tell her, i need you to make me feel better about myself. she says, i could never kill myself til i was something perfect.
you are a match made in heaven: dead.
you spend hours drawing her -- you're an artist, you tell her. really, the only art you know is the lines of her spine, the hollows between her ribs, the lone, thick flesh of her lips, the fragility of her hair. the only thing that hurts is the way she never eats.
why, you ask her. it hurts, she says.
does it really hurt so much you have to starve yourself?
yes, it does.
it never got further than that. by then, your fingers let go of the charcoal and deepene
Freud and Broken Christmas TreesShe spilled the news on me before I even had the chance to react. And what would you even say to that, anyways? I'm sorry? Geez, that sucks? How's it feel to be an only child now? No. Never. You don't say that kind of stuff. You will never be able to find the words to say until it happens to you, too. God forbid.
And she just kind of stared at me. That look was piercing, haunting. It froze my tendons and turned my thoughts to dust. I was a nothing, I was worse than the dirt under her shoes. Because I couldn't solve anything. Because I couldn't make it better. Because I was just as helpless as she was, and she hated me for it.
The feeling wasn't a red, or a black. It wasn't any colour I could really name, but it wasn't a gray either. It was a block of things, a puzzle, the outline of a crumpled soda can. Edges poking inside to spill the remains out through the tiny pinpricks, the fractures in the metal. I could go on and on into metaphors but she – I don't have words to describe her eye
Odyssea Nunquam Abstitit:Odyssea Nunquam Abstitit:
When the blue jacaranda mocked the sky
Sleep bound is she, the drowsy brilliance
below the whispering branch.
Her Caño Cristales hair,
strewn amongst wild blue and green;
Though her eyes
tell of time waiting,
when the wind was lonesome and
slaughtering butterflies in its chill.
They turned, almost at once
Eyes gray, yet dancing with the frenzied
glory of cosmos.
Striking out at her wanderer, like a warm
crash of wave.
She understood, "Your laurel leaves speak of death
but I still need you."
And he wept, "Your garland
speaks of the flowers, streams
and the meadows which is our home."
"Here, is where I still love you
this place, where arms renounce arms
with care, warmth and adoration."
"My arms tangle in shadows, and
my mind only imagines; night falls
on my face within the whirlpool;
Your spark is the farthest from me; distraught
and left desolate, in Ithaca."
(She holds all his hopes)<
Any morning of the week you can walk into your local knock off brand grocery store and find stacks of newsprint papers on your left as you walk in, wiping snow dust off your shoe onto the mat before the crystal flakes melt past the leather into your now soggy black cotton socks.
Not one minute in the dairy milk perfumed air after you walk in through automatic sliding doors, then past windows barring gusts of snow dunes, and there are newspapers. Newsweek, Times, Global something are all there but you pass them for the local paper.
The winter moisture that had soaked into your skin now has already evaporated and the paper grates against your skin as you pick up the local paper. You look up and feel for silver change in your pocket and walk over to the counter where no one else stands before the cashier. At 7am everyone is either in school, on their way to work, at work, or sick in bed. Except for you, because you're different. Your skin is as dry as everyone else's but since last night
The Final PunishmentNo thoughts could enter his mind, but if he could wish for something, it would be for nothing at all. There was no longer any desire in his heart, for at last it's flame had dissolved in streams of blood it had ignored. The monster inside him was gone, as too himself.
Their grip tighten around his wrist, and they pulled him forward deeper against the stone pavement. He could feel the glares of the imperial guard intense with hatred run across his browned bare back and almost singe his white speckled wings to pieces. Their powder white uniform were purelessly clean, the buttons reflecting the high noon sun also evilly.
Thrown onto the silver platform, guards surrounded his busily clicking chains around his feet, hands, and finally his neck. Ropes rubbed angrily against his feathers, and a few fell to the ground sparingly. He looked up into the face of his undiscovered equal.
People of White called him their steel hero; People of Red called him the brutal monster. His eyes were black as