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About Literature / Hobbyist KerriFemale/United States Groups :iconlefthandedartists: LeftHandedArtists
With a common uncommonness.
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Literature
Tourists
We echo within like sea-shells. We are tourists within our own skulls, fingers straining to reach threads, words that will not come. What is left of our spirits hide in box-hedge bushes and the easy regulation of brick paths. The people we always wanted to be have left us behind, staggering, solid entities chained to a sordid earth. Our souls are birds flown south, ocean currents long turned, spring breezes scattered on hard city winds. We find ourselves counting words and dictating spaces, acts of desperation that never used to be necessary. We find ourselves missing a loneliness that left us raw and uncensored; if only being alone would bring us back again.
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Literature
Murder
There's a serial killer in my neighborhood and it has targeted my family.
It went after my sister first. She knew it would win. It stalked her from the shadows, dripping its poison into her soul. Not pretty enough, it whispered. Not smart enough. Not worthy. Not loved. Her smiles turned into grimaces, her eyes darkened into those of an animal's glaring from within its burrow. Cynicism became a lifestyle and she wore headphones like IVs in her ears.
When the bus pulled up to my stop three blocks from home after school, I would run home to her like my life depended on it. Since she was a high school student and I was still in middle school, she got home an hour before I did and my parents usually came home from work late. I would crash through the door, my heart in my throat and voice and pounding feet, terrified it had gotten her while she was home alone, while there was no one there to keep her safe. Usually by the time I got there she was curled up on the couch, lights off, TV off, cl
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Literature
Beyond Distance
There are dew drops rolling between my fingers when I think of you- the sun is coming up and the grass is newly wet. There's a thin line between the layers of time; translucent stars and purple skies are coated upon the sun-scorched clouds of a new day. You're up there in the stars somewhere, tucked in bed, living out your dreams and blissfully ignorant of the world. I reach for a hand that isn't there, a touch that cannot comfort me. The familiar cut wells open again, impossible to sew shut; memories of your hand in mine, pinning me softly to the bed. Making silly faces for a camera on that first night because we don't know what to do. You falling asleep on my chest on the train ride home and me kissing your head while little kids watch us one row forward. These are days I will never have back, days I cannot relive in your face every day. On your side of the country, the stars and dreams are heavier. Here, reality sets every stone bare as the sun burns brighter into the morning.
The d
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Literature
Fault Lines
So this is the end.
I don't think it's worth writing this. Not to you. You've done so much for me, but you've done so much more to me. Sun-freckled days were interrupted by staccato periods of dark, pinprick anger. That's fine. Be angry. But not at me. I can't fix my father or your mother or you. Nor would I want to. And I sure as hell won't be fixing myself.
I like to think that getting away will be worth it. I will ride off into a golden sunset of friends and school and life; you will stay here and bow your head and change your ways. I will come home and you will cluck over me and feed me until I burst and we will laugh again. I will think to myself, so this is what it's like. I can barely believe it. I will pick up and go away again. You will go shopping with your friends and clean less. We will be happy.
Now we sew ourselves into dusty chairs with cushions molded into the shapes of what we lost. We push and pull and bruises spread. Stiff silences bloom and we are alon
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Literature
Looking Through The Glass
i.Loose Threads
I'm coming undone.
There are flakes falling to the ground, soft and white. My breath steams around me, barely any warmer than the night air. I stare upwards, watching pieces of the sky come down. It has been a long time since I doubted my own sanity.
For this is a prison, you see. There is the hard slab of a bed and there are the bars and there I am, huddled as far into the shadows as possible. Maybe it's been too long since my wrists were chafed like this, but these walls are dark and ominous and I don't know if I'm getting out of here alive. They say they want to 'fix' it. Fix me. They're about four years too late.
ii.Holding Together
You are in my heart and I'm sorry for that.
The sky is a bright hopeful gray today, as if it knows the clouds won't be returning any time soon. There's mist everywhere and people scurry from their cars to their destinations, ants under siege.
It's amazing how the weather here seems to reflect exactly how I feel. It makes me
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Literature
Battlefield
It's probably sick that I have such an addiction to you, but I can't find it in myself to care. Your attention is something that I bathe in. I let it run under skin and catch between vertebrae, warm and heavy. It is the coat you cannot put over my shoulders, the wisp of hair you cannot brush from my face, the question you cannot answer.
My spine has become a staircase for you, molded by the treading of your continuous feet. It's becoming soft and it's caving in, and the butterfly nerves in my fingers just can't stand you anymore. They're itching to make you fly away. I never used to think thoughts like these, thoughts that I would be ashamed to confess. But, damn, when it comes to you? I have nothing left to hide.
Your skin went flaxen some days ago, your hair mussed, your fingers calloused and dry. I think I'm the only one who noticed. But when your fireworks erupt, I will be there to watch the sparks fade.
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Literature
The Same Damn Thing
"Sleep," you said. So I slept. I buried myself under a pile of moth-eaten quilts and stuck my fingers through the holes. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the feeling of the rough wool on my skin, the smell of dusty attic boxes. I breathed deeply, expanding my lungs as far as my constricting ribcage would allow. In, out. In, out.
I added oil to the flame; you burned out.
The shabby little shutters on the windows are cracking. The paint is peeling away, and the hinges are squeaking. Late at night, I like to pretend that is the sound the door will make when you finally come find me.
Your life is entangled with mine, vines twisted farther and farther inward. Don't pull out on me. I don't think my vines can stand on their own anymore.
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Amber Pendant by cherrichan13 Amber Pendant :iconcherrichan13:cherrichan13 10 40
Literature
If This Is What It Takes
"I'm going to break your heart." she tells me.
"You already did." I laugh, "I'm not going to let you do it again."
But she smiles and slams her fist into my chest.
"I don't love you," she says softly.
"I don't love you either," I lie. I pretend it hurts, but really, I can't feel a thing.
Our eyes meet and I start to wonder what we're saying.
But she turns and walks away, leaving me with tingling lips and a bruised heart.
I'm so tired of being sad.
--
It's hard, watching his heart snap under that pressure. He's no twig, but he isn't strong enough to hold the whole world on his shoulders. He's got cracks, just like the rest of us. There's no trying. It's do or die. He's too close to dying for my taste.
I ride the subway and think of him. I think of the way he curls up with his iPod in the corner of the battered car and stares out the window. It makes me wonder what he thinks about, what secrets he's keeping. I know he has some, and I worry that they're bad.
I want to fix him. I want t
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Ally by cherrichan13 Ally :iconcherrichan13:cherrichan13 7 25
Literature
Too Far Gone
The wind raises goosebumps along his bare skin. It dances between his fingers, tugs at his hair, pushes him forward. It's too cold to be doing this, he knows. But he can't see the snow and not think of her. He clutches numbly to the guitar with one hand, stretching his other arm out into the wind. The magic's still out there somewhere, it's just a matter of finding it.
When he was seven, still learning his notes, he would sit by the fire and clumsily pluck at the strings of the guitar. He'd stare into the flickering light until he heard her whisper behind him, "It's like magic." Then he'd feel her warm breath on his ear and hear the words, "Let's go outside."
She became synonymous with the bitter taste of winter air, the lingering sound of guitar, the magic.
Her favorite activity used to be pulling fallen pinecones out from underneath their blankets of snow. The two of them would roll them around in the powder and marvel at the tracks they left behind; they would throw the broke
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Literature
Winds Aloft
Wooden hands traveled down towards the bow of the boat. It wasn't like it used to be. It used to be sunny skies and cloudy days and rainy nights, interwoven with each other and imbued with a sense of magic. Now it was rotting wood and sopping sails and weather-worn hulls, moaning at even the slightest wind. She couldn't find that magic anymore.
When Mother first taught her how to sail, she felt like this was the closest she would ever get to flying. She opened her sails and followed the wind, guiding her little boat out of the water. Mother helped her and showed her the magic, but she never could find a way to hold onto it. She stepped off her daughter's boat and never looked back. When her daughter came home for dinner late at night, all that was left was plate of cold food and a note. I love you. Don't forget.
When her brother, pre-tanned and smiling, came home from college over the summer, he would take her out on the water. Just one last time, he would say. They both
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Literature
Give Me Hope
She was the girl with the water-logged ears and the muddled eyes, always squinting against the sunlight. She was the girl who told him that it wasn't that hard to swim, that he just had to jump in and do it. Ignore the obstacles; if you turn this way or the other, they won't be there anymore, she said. She also said she could find it in herself to fight the obstacles for him, if need be.
                                                   Now, which one is the lie?
He was the boy with the calloused fingers that somehow always seemed to be wrapped around hers, and every once in a while he would press his forehead to hers. To shade you from the sunlight, he said. He said that  he loved her, and she would never have to fight thos
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Favourites

Macrame Bracelet 17 by borysbrytva Macrame Bracelet 17 :iconborysbrytva:borysbrytva 591 89
Literature
How to love a girl who can't love herself.
one.
    When she cries herself to sleep
    six out of seven nights a week you must
    say nothing. You must simply take
    her in your arms and kiss her gaunt,
    pale cheeks and wait for her to
    slumber at the sound of your heart.
two.
    On the days where she wishes she
    were part of the stars, tell her
    no. Tell her that there are too many
    lights in the sky and that just one
    would be forgotten the moment you looked
    away from it. Tell her that she is perfect
    the way she is: completely human.
three.
     Don't let her think about the scars
     that no one but her can see. If she
     says "I think I'm broken" smile like you
     know a secret and say, "No, you're mending."
     But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
 
:iconlupus-astra:lupus-astra
:iconlupus-astra:lupus-astra 4,665 1,320
After the rain by AquaSixio After the rain :iconaquasixio:AquaSixio 13,483 709
Literature
Beginning We End
Him, in the very beginning:
He is eighteen when he gets his death sentence. Unlike most death sentences, this one isn't going to send him to the guillotine or maybe the noose. Instead, it's handed to him by a doctor with very clean hands in a stark white room probably very similar to the one he'll end up dying in. And it's not the type of death sentence carried out by an impassive executor. He's essentially going to kill himself. He is dying from the inside out.
He mumbles something at the doctor, and suddenly he is on the street, a white piece of paper fisted and crumped in his hands. He's grateful it has the prescription written on it in sloppy medical scrawl, because he sure as hell can't recall half or more of the conversation he just had. All that's left are words like, "terminal" and "life-expectancy" and "5-10 years". He kicks viciously at the curb, wonders how the world can be ending on a day when the sky is blue and the clouds are full and the air is sweet.
The sun plants taun
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:iconbangingonkeyboards:bangingonkeyboards 234 47
Literature
Cerulean
My favorite color is cerulean.
It feels like dipping your hand into a brook, smooth pebbles under your fingertips, the water lacing quick and cool between your fingers. It feels like the first warm day after a long winter, when you can shed your heavy coat and a light breeze brushes your arms again. It feels like a bucket of paint, not the tacky wet paint that gets on your jeans from sitting on a newly painted bench too soon. It feels like freshly washed hair woven into one long braid down your back. It feels like a glass bottle to send out to sea with a message. It feels like the surface of photographs, piano keys, and guitar strings.
It moves like bird's wings as they settle into trees at twilight. It moves like tropical fish deep in the Great Barrier Reef. It moves like the lazy rock of a row boat on the lake behind your summer home. It moves like your walk in a new pair of sneakers.
It tastes like fresh fruit, when the juice runs down your chin, and you throw the pit into the grass
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Literature
Go Home
I like boys on bicycles. They wear button-up shirts tucked into slightly rumpled khakis, crooked glasses, and shoes a size too big for them with untied laces. They are very well groomed; their fingernails are trimmed regularly, and they floss once a day. These boys my father proclaims are “definitely homosexual," but they quietly fall in love with girls in museums and libraries and bus stops. I like these boys because they do not know how to break hearts. They only know how to offer me their sweaters when I’m cold, to get along with my mother, and to remember when my birthday is. I scare these boys. I am too loud, too messy, always say too much, and am far too aware of how much I can’t give to them.
“You should leave," I tell them. “You can’t stay here."
What I mean is that I can’t make them breakfast in the morning because I burn bacon and undercook eggs and like my orange juice extremely pulpy. I get too hot with another person’s body n
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Literature
Forgetting
One day, he will forget the sound of her voice, the way her eyes crinkle at things that no one else finds funny, how she looks when she laughs, the sweetness of her mouth, the pattern of her breathing as she sleeps, and how her skin feels, warm and smooth, beneath his hands.
One day, these things will slowly fade from his mind one by one, and be replaced by thoughts of someone else. She’ll feel it happening as she slips away from his heart, feel it in the spaces between her ribs, where all the things she could never tell him are buried deep. It will make her collapse sometimes, but she will get up and keep going.
One day, he will be asleep with his face buried in someone else’s hair, his arms curled around someone else’s body, in someone else’s bed, and she may creep in. She may tiptoe in to peel back the shroud he’s thrown over the memories of her and everything she gave to him that she could never take back, just to see if they’re still there.
And
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:iconindigoskyes:IndigoSkyes 9 12
Literature
I only exist in the past.
Once upon a time, I filled novels with my thoughts, cementing myself into the binding of books, the spiral bound pages beneath my bed. But time passes, my hair has grown, my handwriting has changed, and I've lost a piece of myself.
The moon eyed boy tells me that he loves me, but I've fallen out of love with life, and some skills, you can't relearn. I don't recognize the sound of my own voice anymore and my old words catch in my throat like a beautiful lie from centuries past.
For the first time, I am the girl I always wanted to be, apathetic and unafraid. But girls like me don't hide at night, stitching their souls into patches of their skin while the moon makes it's way across the sky. It's hard to be fearless when you let fear take you, grab you by the hand and whisper through the darkness.
But late at night, when the summer sky is swallowing us and we are more than happy to be consumed, allowing the dark silence to wipe our slates clean, I find myself missing the girl with the sun
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Literature
Vermont
Never let anyone tell you dragons aren’t real. They’re as real as can be, I promise you that. They used to be everywhere back in the Old World, Europe and the like, but you won’t find them there any more. Knights and dragonslayers moved in and that was that. Like the pilgrims later to come, they left to seek a better life in a new land. It was a long trip across the ocean but they made it, eventually landing in a lush green land. There were humans here too, but they didn’t fear the dragons and they lived in peace together. Time passed as it always does and the great dragons began to fade. But they didn’t leave. They laid down in the forests, letting sleep come upon them. Plants began to grow on their backs, whole forests with trees and teeming with life. You can still see them, if you know where to look, though. And on a cool, clear New England night, you can still see them smoke in their sleep.
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:iconlyscooper:LysCooper 11 4
Literature
Eat The Sun
"Mama, can you eat the sun?" eight-year-old Hunter said in between his sloppy chewing of his sugary, morning breakfast cereal.
His mother, a tired woman with heavy, dark circles under her eyes, sighed and gave a tired and sad smile.
"Of course not, Hunter. That's impossible. It's so far away, honey." she tried to reason.
"And it would be really hot, wouldn't it?" he spat out bits of half-chewed cereal.
"Yes. Something so far away has to be really hot to keep us warm."
Hunter nodded. It made perfect sense, but that didn't stop him from being curious to the sun's taste.
"I bet it'll taste like soup fresh off the stove when I don't blow it cold." he tried to explain as his mother cleared the kitchen table of their breakfast.
"I don't know, baby. I never tried to eat the sun. When you get home maybe we can bake some sun cookies and you can eat those." his mother yawned. "Grandma will help."
Hunter grinned. He was happy that his mother was finally back to normal. Days of crying and sleeping
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:iconcelestialmemories:CelestialMemories 59 39
Literature
Like Only the Stars are Watching
Mr. Glenn’s wife died the day before last. Of course, now all their children could talk about was what she would have wanted.
“She would want a proper burial,” Gary, the eldest, said.
“In the cemetery at Memorial Park,” Martin said.
Gary shook his head. “Much too crowded there. She wouldn’t want to knock elbows with anyone. She would prefer be buried in the Green Meadows Cemetery.”
“No,” Lisa Marie said, slapping her hand against Mr. Glenn’s antique table. “She wouldn’t want a grave. If she was here, she’d tell us to cremate her and spread her ashes across the farm.”
“I don’t think she liked this farm as much as you think,” Kurt said. “We should take the boat and spread her ashes out at sea. She would like that better.”
Lisa Marie huffed and crossed her arms. “Mom told me everything, and I can promise you that what she would want is to be here, on the farm.
:iconTheBloodyEpicPumpkin:TheBloodyEpicPumpkin
:iconthebloodyepicpumpkin:TheBloodyEpicPumpkin 147 33
Literature
Trials.
"I can't do this." he
said, but what is love without
some complication?
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:iconracketeered:Racketeered 1 2

Activity


deviantID

cherrichan13
Kerri
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
What, am I supposed to say something about myself here?

Um...hi, I'm Kerri. Nice to meet you. :D
Interests
I want to deconstruct mountains and rebuild them in your hands. Tumbling rocks that could crush your skull in; that is what you are made of today.
  • Listening to: Monday Morning by Death cab for Cutie
  • Reading: Bone Game by Louis Owens

Comments


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:iconoaklungs:
oaklungs Featured By Owner Nov 22, 2013
thank you so much for the favourite! :tighthug:
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:iconcelestialmemories:
CelestialMemories Featured By Owner Sep 10, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you very much for the favorite!
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:iconscatteredwords:
scatteredwords Featured By Owner Apr 8, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the favorite! :la:
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:icontitusboy25:
TitusBoy25 Featured By Owner Feb 12, 2013  Hobbyist Digital Artist
:cake::party:Happy Birthday!:party::cake:
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:iconshadowrealm35:
ShadowRealm35 Featured By Owner Feb 12, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday! :cake: D:
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:iconhugqueen:
HugQueen Featured By Owner Feb 12, 2013   Writer
HAPPY BIRTHDAY. :iconyaybunnyplz:
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:icongrauweiss:
GrauWeiss Featured By Owner Feb 12, 2013
Happy, happy birthday!! :cake:
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:iconhugqueen:
HugQueen Featured By Owner Jan 15, 2013   Writer
HI YOU ARE AWESOME. :heart:

[Just in case you forgot.]
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:iconcherrichan13:
cherrichan13 Featured By Owner Jan 26, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Aaaaaww, I miss you guys.

YOU'RE AWESOME TOO. :heart:
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