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Happy holidays from deviantART! by Heidi, journal
Happy holidays from deviantART!
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through dA,
Not a troll was stirring, nor Grinch in his sleigh.
Deviations were hung in digital Galleries with care,
In hopes that +Favourites soon would be there.
The n00bs were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Daily Deviations danced in their heads.
And Fella in his 'kerchief, and spyed (https://www.deviantart.com/spyed) with his night-light,
Had just settled down to log-off for the night,
When over in the Forums there arose such a clatter,
Fella sprang back online to see what was the matter.
To the browser window he flew like a flash,
Tore open the tabs and refreshed the cache.
When what to his art-loving ey
An Erratic, Formless Thing by MissAddledMiss, literature
Literature
An Erratic, Formless Thing
His soul escaped his lips and curved up like smoke. It rested in her hands. An erratic, formless thing hard to contain.
His skin grew pale. The light in his eyes faded and dimmed until they became nothing but shallow pools of color. As he exhaled his last breath, he fell to the ground. His limbs splayed in unusual contortions like a discarded rag doll.
Yet his soul was very much alive and danced in her hands. An odd warmth infected her fingertips. So this was the very essence of life.
She cupped the smoke in her hands and held it to her chest. Her strength left her and she fell to her knees. Tears spilled from her eyes and she cursed herse
Untitled by Novelwrite, literature
Literature
Untitled
And so much did he love her,
That he wrote down every detail of her face.
He recorded the hook of her nose,
And the slight yellowing on those hard-to-brush teeth.
And so much did he love her,
That he cataloged her flaws,
So he could learn to love them all the more.
For the Girl Who Loves the Clouds by Novelwrite, literature
Literature
For the Girl Who Loves the Clouds
The boy was always flawed,
And he would have told you this from the start.
He wrote down his insecurities,
And toyed with the pen until they came to fruition.
"Too anxious," he wrote, "too worried."
The longer he wrote, the longer the list grew.
And the fewer times he could cross out the past.
"Still too anxious," he wrote, "still too worried."
So when she swept into his life like a rainstorm,
He had hoped she could wash him clean.
But he was still too anxious, he realized, still too worried.
So he wrote down her flaws, too,
And her strengths.
And he wrote a list of impressive size.
And as he wrote his love for her blossomed,
But with love, h