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About Literature / Hobbyist Ghastly GannetMale/United States Groups :iconiwritetoinspire: iWriteToInspire
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Literature
Rarity's Letter
Dearest Fluttershy,
I suppose since I’m already writing letters of apology for my customers, I should also write this letter to you. I feel that you deserve an explanation and an apology from me as well, so that you can understand why I cannot give you your heart’s desire.
Even after all these years, and despite the fact that we were never able to start a family like we both wanted, my heart still belongs to Golden Fleece. Though circumstances have parted us prematurely, I still think of him every day. Some days… are harder than others, but happy or sad, I will cherish every moment I spent with him for the rest of my admittedly short time left.
Golden Fleece hasn’t had an easy life. He and his family had a falling-out over his choice of career and he’s been estranged from them ever since. The first love of his life who he’d met soon afterwards when he had little except daydreams and ambitions eventually cheated on him with an acquaintance of his. For
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Literature
Baila sin nombre (a Max Payne tribute)
It starts with a girl.
It always starts with a girl.
Somebody you gotta protect.
But you can’t.
That’s not how the dance goes.
Because someone always snatches her away from you.
Someone always does.
You dive down to the dance floor after her,
Bust some moves twenty years too young for your body,
Make a moron of yourself.
You wonder why you came here in the first place—
At the invitation of your “dearest friend”
To be a so-called protector, some “Great American Savior”—
To be a rent-a-clown for some rich idiot’s amusement.
Go home, old man.
Drink some of your favorite scotch,
Straight out of your favorite glass
Using your favorite drinking arm,
Then collapse into your favorite sweat-stinking mattress
In your favorite sweat-stinking suit.
It only makes you more of a fool.
But the band plays on and you keep dancing,
Dancing around buzzing hotshots
And faces you know are important but can barely remember,
All the while the faces you can
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Literature
Blue
Down a shell-strewn beach
I walk with feet bare, and take my first steps
into the waves of the Atlantic.
The water is clearer than I imagined,
clearer than my wandering mind
in the winding streets of this strange city,
a stranger growing stranger still with every familiarity I remember
from every city I ever set foot in and drank my fill,
laid my head down to rest and dream of better places.
The familiarities I see here are just reminiscences
and reminders of hours that came before,
places that exist only in my memory.
The reality of the past will drown under the weight of memories—
crimson images of sunrise remembered in glittering eyes,
stories shared over liquor at a wake,
or heads turning high to the night sky,
the moonlight flooding the mind with thoughts of home.
Every brick in this city carries so much weight;
a man like me would only suffocate if I tried drinking it all in.
And every historied timber,
every steel beam coated with decades and centuries
emanates an aura tha
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Literature
Names etched on seawalls
Names etched on seawalls
Bells sounding mourning calls
Ringing hollow in the grey skies above
Dressed in black below the naves
Syllables echoed in the waves
Tearful soil falling into the grave
I look to find nothing within
A place in my heart where you should have been
Beating slow and living still
Your voice is missing as the earth is filled
Dying flowers accompany the dead
Asking what could have been instead
And the wind whistles on, and gives me no answer.
Forgetting you aren’t there
Daylight turns in gear
Receding with the sun as time moves on
With darkness rolling in
I come back again
And the room echoes lonely silence
I look to find nothing within
A place in my heart where you should have been
Beating slow and living still
Your voice is missing as the earth is filled
Dying flowers accompany the dead
Asking what could have been instead
And the wind whistles on, and gives me no answer.
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Literature
Summer died last night
Summer died last night, alone.
The piercing swords of morning air
stabbed deep, deep as betrayal.
“Sic semper tyrannis!”
Farewell, oppression of heat and humidity,
days baking and nights broiling.
Then there was quiet.
What will be left by the end of winter?
To come from a place where summer is barren
and to settle where winter is lifeless,
to live two seasons in absence.
To not sow, and to not harvest.
To thirst and hunger,
to be trapped in the falling expectations
of a season of turning leaves,
when ghosts return to the earth
between two oceans and far away to both,
away from my place of belonging.
I can feel the color leaving my hands,
sprinkled adrift into the lances of sunlight
that can no longer warm my soul.
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Literature
RNI
“Why did you call me?”
“Your mom’s in the hospital.”
“… What happened?”
“It’s her heart. She’s in ICU.”
“Yeah, but what happened, Dad?”
“Honestly, kid, I don’t know.” His father sounded hoarse. “You know she’s been like this for the longest time.”
Ian stayed quiet.
“… I’ll cover your plane tickets, Ian. She wants to see you.”
“… Okay.”
“What would be a convenient day for you?”
“I’ll buy the ticket, Dad. I’ll be home by Saturday.”
“Okay. Just call me when you figure it out, so I can go to the airport to pick you up.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll say hi to your mom for you.”
“Okay.”
“Stay safe, Ian.”
“I will. See you soon, Dad.”
Ian Che hung up the phone. The dust motes flew apart in their vortices as he breathed out a sigh into
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Literature
Luna's Reply
How my deeds pain me as time stretches long
How could I have hurt them this way?
So rest easy now, my punishment’s mine
The weight of my crimes are my own
But into that stillness you brought me your song
With your voice my company kept
For your tired eyes and sweet lullabies
In exile I pay you my debt
Once did a pony who gleamed like the moon
Look out on her kingdom and sigh
Dejected she cried, “Surely there is no pony
“Who loves me, or finds any love in my night.”
So great was her pain, she rose in rebellion
Against those who cared for her most
She let the Nightmare fall on those she ruled
And threatened to grip them in permanent cold
Lullay, dear Tia, good night sister mine
Rest now in starlight’s embrace
May this cool lullaby reach you in dreams
And ease you your passage of days
May my apologies find you this night
And may my sorrow in kind
Tia, you loved me much more than I knew
Forgive me for being so blind
Soon did her sister do what was demanded
And
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Literature
Heaventide
  On nights when I rarely sleep
I stare out of my window
where wakeful dreams flood my landscape
twisting streets into rivers
  Tranquil tides rise against cobblestone beaches
then all is quiet
when the moon leans against the water
starlight glittered lapis
  My room submerges
thoughts floating away with my books and poems
I am Svidrigailov
  In the water I am sleeping
  Stars reflect into the Pacific
portals to remembrance
woven together in night's liquid tapestry
  If I swim out I can reach each one
hear the blinked whispers of their lullabies
comforting notes forming gentle waves
rocking me in their cradle of warm music
where I close my eyes
  Breathing water as I would breathe air
my body is a plaything of my mind
floating off above as I dive below
embraced in the arms of motherly song
touching every star
holding moonsilver in my hand
  Dark green tea cascades into china
quickening my breath and heartbe
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Literature
Flood
What does it take for a glacier to fall?
Simple. When spring comes
piece by piece the ice recedes
cold meltwater flowing away
Dikes and dams can't hold back
deep waters,
                    love-in-loneliness.
The levee breaks,
sending your pent-up reservoir
crashing into once-safe harbors.
The flood splits streets into new rivers,
shreds our measured walls to pieces.
Roofs fall to the primordial chaos of whirling water,
the lives they sheltered devoured.
Panicking, you fling yourself to the only high ground you know
and when I see you again
the water divides
our once connected
          islands
Dare I cross treacherous currents
brave fears of being washed away
to bridge a gap growing
                          
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Literature
Blue Rose
Blue Rose of Illium,
entwine me with your thorns,
for the scars you leave on my skin
give more honor than battle-wounds.
Let my hands carry you
from the shadows of steel towers
into the hot sunshine,
so your petals may grow deep in color,
your leaves and stems more supple,
your roots firmly gripping the earth
where love plants you.
Blue Rose of Illium,
may I die with your name on my lips,
and fall close to where you stand
so my blood may enrich your soil,
and my bones wall you
against any who would uproot you
without knowing your true worth.
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Literature
Five
T,
Have we told you about our lives as graduate students in Japan? Washing dishes to make ends meet, working day in and day out. After graduation, still hanging onto every word of your boss, in a lab or in an office, fearing your future security. Will I ever retire comfortably? Will I ever have a house to call my own?
The anxiety never stops. Between your tuition, car loans, the mortgage, the garbage bills, the water bills, the electricity… our savings dwindle every month by the thousands. We're not young; what will happen when we can't work anymore? Will you be able to make it on your own? Will we make it with what we have? We've no roots in this country—almost all our networks of friends are in China. Very few people would come to our support if anything ever happens here.
We were never disappointed of you. You, who learned Japanese faster than either of us ever could, and did the same to English. Sometimes we wish we could speak it as well as you, because we know there's s
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Literature
The Fifer
What cheerful tune rose through your head, Édouard,
as your brush and paint knives marched with military precision
up and down the rough terrain of the canvas-fields?
What hypnotic movement of dancing fingers compelled you
to cadence color with bold marshaling strokes,
setting them en route to picturesque victory?
Whatever this music was is lost to the ears,
and the young guardsman has now marched past with imperial discipline
alongside the rest of his company, out of hearing range.
The mental orchestra stops, and in its stead
the hubbub of street chitchat falls back into place.
Luckily for you, your sketchbook has managed to trace the score.
You return to your studio with eyes raised high,
ready to set to work.
The commander does not complain when you ask for one of his boys
to pose in front of the canvas with his edgeless, fireless weapon poised,
raised to his lips at the ready.
Even though his instrument is far removed from a musket,
you tremble at its sound rising to meet you
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Literature
Gardenias
When the flowers opened,
young Ibrahim was there,
standing at the the florist's counter.
Good day again, young man,
what's caught your fancy today?
These two flowers, what are they called?
Gardenias, son, a sign of love,
secret sweets and good fortune.
The white petals reminded Ibrahim
of her dress shining against her dark skin,
catching the breeze like afternoon curtains.
Two gardenias, two gardenias
for my love in full bloom,
an exchange of joy and promise.
Two gardenias, two gardenias
for my love and me.
When she opened her door,
young Ibrahim walked inside
and set the flowerpots on her windowsill.
They are beautiful, Ibrahim,
those flowers, what are they called?
Gardenias, sweet, a sign of dedication,
symbols of my love and my adulation.
Care for them as you would care for me,
for my heart and your own.
Her smile reminded Ibrahim
of sunny cafes on Saturday,
bustling with laughter and good conversation.
Two gardenias, two gardenias
brighten the whole room,
a bond of intimate affecti
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Literature
Time, Second Draft
Prologue.
Sometimes, we make ourselves forget. Because yesterday belongs to the dead and we must keep living. But we are all puzzles, never complete. Only the most blissfully blessed can consider themselves whole. Holy are the times when we were wholly alive.
We fall apart as we move forward. The pieces of the puzzle do not fit so neatly together in the way they are given to us. The more we try to build with them the more rickety our assemblages become. Sooner or later we'd need to stop and fit them together again before they collapse totally. With this in mind, we all look back to the starting point, home in on the origin, dig up what we've buried before. But the eyeless faces of exhumed skeletons are terrible to look upon. We can't bear to stare into their hollow sockets, so we give up, lie down, and dream. In our dream, in our mind, we unspill the hourglass, start again with all the sand on top. Back to the beginning of it all.
II.
A place where the stream flows past l
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Literature
Does Not Compute
Open your arms, love,
and let me crawl back in
drag myself across the floor to your knees
and collapse into the warmth of--
[SYNTAX ERROR]
The face of sadness stared at me
with its gaunt, emaciated form,
eyes piercing into my soul
like daggers held in the hands of--
[SYNTAX ERROR]
The town lives
like a scene from a sepia-tone photograph
(except with sunny vivacity),
highlighting my reminiscence of--
[SYNTAX ERROR]
Courage has an invaluable price
beyond any human ability of estimation
when it is applied to willing sacrifice,
a purposeful display of--
[SYNTAX ERROR]
The water is clear and cold
in the stream by the willow trees;
we scooped it with our hands
and took sips that tasted of--
[SYNTAX ERROR]
My pen takes refuge in the crooks of Kruchenykh,
painting pictures reverting to Vertov in their cinematography
while committing formalistic treason
with their egregious jumbled energy
showing emptiness in every verbal motion,
herbally moving past every indication of termination.
I've starte
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Literature
Posthistory
It is finished!
The capstone is set
with the delicate handiwork of a Polish-Russian
displaying his mastery over color and technique.
Philistines accuse him of depicting
black people loading coal at night,
ignoring the craft in his brushstrokes,
blind before the bare icon
of the end of history
Up-and-coming artists
sigh under this dictatorial supremacy,
the absolute apex and total terminus
of all high-minded philosophies.
Wounded, they go back
to their comfort foods and drinks,
reusing the simple
and not hoping to speak enlightened messages
How will they restart
after destruction,
find a replacement
for the rest of art,
when one act declares all others obsolete?
But they must restart--
rest art--
for the sake of the times we find ourselves in,
and for everything else
[Insert MasterCard joke here]
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Swords-and-Bandages
Ghastly Gannet
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
"Tonight we shall rhyme in the shade."

--Leonidas, Epic Rap Battles of History

Current Residence: Boston, MA, USA
Print preference: In any way that does not waste ink yet offer high quality
Favourite genre of music: Rap/Hip Hop, R&B, Rock, Classical
Favourite style of art: Call it an even split between Russian Futurism, Pop Art, and Sots-Art.
MP3 player of choice: iPod
Shell of choice: What am I, a hermit crab?
Favourite cartoon character: Arsene Lupin III
Personal Quote: Let words be my deeds, for I am otherwise impotent.
Interests
I've been busy at work recently. Haven't done much of anything MLP-related on dA, but I have been writing fanfiction: www.fimfiction.net/story/32366…

The premise is fairly simple: Fluttershy reminisces about her unrequited love for Rarity, and all the things that wound up keeping them apart. It was, in its nature, a challenge I made for myself to narrate in the voice of a character I wasn't totally comfortable narrating in. I think I learned a lot from the exercise, and I feel like I made something worthwhile at the same time, so it's definitely a win for me. It'll be even more so if I got a lot of other people to read it and enjoy it, of course, but such things come and go.

The first draft of the story is complete. Two chapters are already posted, and I'll most likely serialize the release of the remaining chapters over the rest of April. I might consider cross-posting it here as well, but I've not yet decided on that.

On other fronts, I've drafted several poems--or several cantos of a rambling long poem, not sure which--as well. It's difficult to get people to edit poetry, though, so they'll remain in handwritten first-draft form for the time being.

Stay cool, folks.
  • Watching: The Great War
  • Drinking: Water

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:iconmoonflowersax:
MoonFlowerSax Featured By Owner Feb 8, 2017  Hobbyist General Artist
:hug: :smooch: :huggle:
Please take care and have a good time. :)
Reply
:iconsadekuuro:
Sadekuuro Featured By Owner Oct 6, 2016
Thanks for the :+fav:!
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:iconrob66:
Rob66 Featured By Owner Jan 5, 2016
Thanks for the three faves! :)
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:iconswords-and-bandages:
Swords-and-Bandages Featured By Owner Mar 13, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome. :)
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:iconpajunen:
Pajunen Featured By Owner Nov 8, 2015
Thank you for the :+fav:
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:iconswords-and-bandages:
Swords-and-Bandages Featured By Owner Mar 13, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome. :)
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:iconbound-to-please:
Bound-to-please Featured By Owner Oct 27, 2015  Professional Digital Artist
Thank you for all the faves, I really appreciate it.
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:iconswords-and-bandages:
Swords-and-Bandages Featured By Owner Oct 28, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome. :)
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:icontulf42:
tulf42 Featured By Owner Oct 18, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for badging back! :D
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:iconswords-and-bandages:
Swords-and-Bandages Featured By Owner Oct 28, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome. :)
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