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52 Week Six Word Story Challenge! - Week 11

Mar 19, 2011

SixWordStories (https://www.deviantart.com/sixwordstories) has teamed up with theWrittenRevolution (https://www.deviantart.com/thewrittenrevolution) to present to the literature community a project that will question what it really means to be a writer. Although all of these challenges are in the six word story form, there is nothing to say that you can't apply them to different kinds of literature too! :la: We encourage everyone to take part! :la: Even if you are not a writer, that is totally fine! If you can string six words together into a story and follow some rules, then you are very welcome to join us and you don't even have to participate every week either! Each week, a challenge is set with the results of the previ

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Literature

Sepsis

my love for you has escaped my heart; it has spread through the maze of capillaries and veins, into the arteries. my adoration has flooded my brain; it has inhibited all rationality, and fogged all memories. it has taken unwelcome refuge in my lungs; burning in my breath, devouring the oxygen sucked past dry lips. my love for you has gone septic. (the doctors say they cannot clean my polluted blood, because the infection festers in my heart.)

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52 Week Six Word Story Challenge! - Week 11

Mar 19, 2011

deviantART-related

9 deviations

Daily Deviations suggested

1 deviation

Sepsis by Mercy-Waters, literature

Literature

Sepsis

Fiat lux by ProvenParadox, literature

Literature

Fiat lux

All the rivers run into the Sea; Our cast reconvenes 'neath the ol' Bodhi tree: Fisher King from the Sea-Otter's demesne; The forgotten soldier who lives to have seen Faust's night on the ridge and Walpurgis night's dream; And fore-thinking bones from the dead fire-bringer. Three dreamers watching, with the lighting's singer. Yet, the Sea is not full;

angel by hostofthemaze, literature

Literature

angel

She is a musician. Pale grey eyes that are half closed and blood shot most of the time. Crimson colored hair, the kind you can only get out of a box, sways down to her frail hips, But the incognito blonde peeks out at the roots. She leans her skinny body against the cold brick wall like it's Home Base in a game of tag. A cigarette hangs from her lips, a violin from her fingers. They're melancholy tunes that she pulls from those strings, But they harmonize with the clatter of coins being tossed in a jar. They watch her like she's an angel. They hear her like she's a prayer. She sings about money, and love, and other seemingly empty t

Shadow and Radiance by ProvenParadox, literature

Literature

Shadow and Radiance

On the west side of Eden There is nothing but seven graves; And in the dust, I hear voices chanting But no bells ring. Say it: O for the radiance of a thousand suns O I am become death, destroyer of worlds O O O O Until the rotting teeth Fall from Golgotha's empty mouth And tree's grow in the sockets, Where pleading eyes Used to be; No one will know peace. I used to bask in The misty sunset's glow. But now, even Valhalla's feasts Seem quiet and empty. I wonder if I'll ever Get them right. No wonder. No wonder. No wonder. Those are pearls that were his eyes.

2669-B by Dibujando, literature

Literature

2669-B

In the early hours, when he is still asleep, she begins counting the tiny black and white tiles plastered to the ceiling of their flat. Some are chipped, some are covered by a layer of dust, and some are not tiles at all, but cockroaches in disguise. By 143 he has stretched his arms and kissed her neck, by 206 he has tied his shoes and lit a cigarette, and by 262 he's always gone. She knows that the smell of coffee will dissipate by 329 and that if she can bother getting out of bed to call her worried mom for once, or even just go to the damn bathroom, he will be back by 2338. If she counts slowly. -- Sometimes, late at night, when she has

clap if you believe by imperfectionistics, literature

Literature

clap if you believe

Even as a little girl, I was a budding pessimist. Everything was half empty - not just glasses, but people, too. I remember loving Peter Pan as a little girl. Not the Disney version, but the play with Mary Martin as Pan. Every time Tink drank the poison, I felt my heart clench, first because I wanted to find someone who'd die to save me, and second because I knew she'd die. I never clapped for Tink because I didn't believe that the little flashing light from the audience had a soul, that the little bells had a heart. Whoever I watched the movie with clapped though, and I'd pret

Light's Out by Midknyghtchild, literature

Literature

Light's Out

Sometimes I wish for power to go out. Be it a down power line, a blackout, or simply a bill that wasn't paid on time. That way we would have an excuse to break out those scented candles I got you for Christmas last year. The apartment will fill with its fruity aroma and I'd know why you never lit them. We'd laugh, as we re-learn to navigate our living room, half-arguing over whose idea it was to put that table there. I'd knock over that hideous lamp your mother gave you, insisting that it was an accident, and that you didn't really like it either, So now, at least we have an excuse to trash it, 'Cause I know how much you hate t

how to save a life. by t-writes-poems, literature

Literature

how to save a life.

what do you say when an angel tells you she doesn't believe in God? she says when she thinks of Jesus, it reminds her of me when I'm twice the sinner she'll ever be and she doesn't even believe. and she comes to me in tears and broken words: "if He's there, you're all I've got; you're my closest line to God. so send a prayer postmarked from me, and maybe someday I'll believe." so help me, God to let this go, to get my head right, to get my heart right, and to let her know that being alive means more than just living a life.

And Going Up by cherrichan13, literature

Literature

And Going Up

I love Saturdays. The summer breeze. Sleeping in. The first snowflake. The satisfying crunch of icy snow underfoot. Shooting stars, 11:11, eyelashes. One last chance. Polka dots. The last piece of cake. The night life, too-loud music, too much oxygen. Lunch dates. A brand new book, never opened. Christmas lights. You. I need Three square meals a day. Sixty minutes of exercise. Relaxation. Sneakers without holes in them. Time. That first cup of coffee in the morning. Conversation, determination, innovation. Heartfelt repercussions. Something different than you. I want A bigger apartment. A dog. Eyeliner. Long car rides, starr

Still Freshmen After All by cherrichan13, literature

Literature

Still Freshmen After All

I hope you read this someday. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not even this year. I want you to read this 30 years from now, when you're broken and sobbing and kicking yourself for making such a stupid decision. I want you to go up to your attic, dust this off, and remember. I want you to remember me for who I really was. Not the fun, crazy girl who spent her time trying to convince others that she was okay, that she didn't care what everyone else thought. I want you to remember how she was always looking down when she walked, how she was always so guarded with her words and, for such a long time, only wanted to share them with you. You, who could

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