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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
September 1, 2008
The Causal Principle by *clownscape speaks volumes in under two hundred words. There is certainly something deeper stated here, but one may never truly know.
Featured by LadyLincoln
Literature Text
He had painted the picture of nothing but a solitary teardrop on a piece of black carbon paper. On the other side of the paper he had laid down the river.
Night bloomed in the river, that morning. Reflected onto the air above. Paintbrushed into a random breeze.
She woke up that morning into the dark, tear-strained. She knew at the primacy of her senses, that this wasn’t an eclipse. It was blindness. One of those denser forms of darkness where you can’t see anything even when you close your eyes. For it pours into your nervous system. She’d never see him again.
Standing there on the riverbank, he realized she’d never be able to comprehend his gift. Or understand it.
He tore off his tear.
Night bloomed in the river, that morning. Reflected onto the air above. Paintbrushed into a random breeze.
She woke up that morning into the dark, tear-strained. She knew at the primacy of her senses, that this wasn’t an eclipse. It was blindness. One of those denser forms of darkness where you can’t see anything even when you close your eyes. For it pours into your nervous system. She’d never see him again.
Standing there on the riverbank, he realized she’d never be able to comprehend his gift. Or understand it.
He tore off his tear.
Literature
Under the Umbrella
That’s me under the battered umbrella, the one with the Technicolor dreamcoat and the hairstyle that’s decidedly undecided. I’m avoiding looking down, I expect, because I’d like to be one of those confident people that smiles and says “Afternoon!” to everyone they pass on the gum-dappled pavements, and not someone that puts all their energy into considering abandoned takeaway packaging and coins glued to the floor by psychology students.
I’m probably thinking about poetry, or one of many arrogant young men that occasionally give me a look that could be mistaken for something meaningful. Maybe I’m just
Literature
monday
mornings are important
to the poem. sometimes it
has to struggle toward Monday
and the house has to be cleaned.
it hardly has time to think of you.
it needs bagels for strength
and caffeine for the tangled mess
of words, strewn about like cheese
doodles locked in battle position
on the floor. the air is stale.
it will unearth suitcases full
of past. read chapters of history
written on cracked luggage tags.
it will want to stop because its
allergies are flaring. the flotsam
and jetsam of the mess is getting
in the way of the poem. it becomes
impatient and contemplates whiskey
and a cigarette mid afternoon.
it will di
Literature
In Place of Strife
We meet a man, who, at present, is down on his luck. He has recently been defined as ‘surplus’ as a worker in a large holding company. His boss never even had the nerve to inform him and his 600 workmates face-to-face: they were informed by a middle-manager whilst he enjoyed life’s bounty on a cruise ship circling the Caribbean. The announcement was met with rage and horror by the workforce: tempers flared and despair reigned. Our anonymous protaganist was little different. Though refusing his colleagues’ call for an emergency session at the pub, he returns home and informs his wife of the day’s events. Though she tri
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they came flying in the water
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I love that last line