Welcome to theWrittenRevolution
's Affiliates Feature!* We decided that we wanted to get more involved with our affiliate groups, so we've started up this monthly blog to showcase and feature some of them. If you have the time, please do check out & support these wonderful groups!
If you're interested in seeing the other groups we're affiliated with, you can find the list on the group's About Us page.
*Suggestions for a better name, and suggestions of any other kind, are most welcome.
is a selective group dedicated to featuring work they find exceptional. They have a total of ten admins who are responsible for selecting the deviations featured in the group's gallery. As they explain in their rules, the deviation is subjected to a 3 yes/ no vote to ensure that each piece is looked at by "deviants with differing literary styles, approaches, and preferences". Keep in mind that "quality" literature is subjective, so don't be discouraged if you deviation isn't accepted. Along with that, they also feature a member every month whose "submissions meet and surpass" their guidelines, found below.
Here at TalentedWritersGuild, we encourage deviants to select only their best pieces of literature for submission. We look for pieces that simultaneously move us, challenge us, and inspire us as readers; pieces that stimulate us emotionally and intellectually; and the pieces that display true technical skill. To ensure this level of quality, we have judges who consider all these things, and let only the pieces they deem up to snuff through to the gallery. The purpose of this is to push our submitters to excel, challenge themselves, and improve their craft, and to provide our readers with high quality literature to read.
's Mission Statement
Fearless LeaderFearful LeaderModerators
You can find the group's rules on their 'About Us' page here
and their policy on fan-fiction here
. As always read the group's rules before submitting! Featured Writer of the Month: November
The icicle crests of pine-needle tiaras
Had settled onto the crisp craniums of pale
Rouge and foundation-frosted pinecones.
The multi-faceted snow-tipped noses were open
To the hushed aria of breathing with undertones
Of whispers suggesting: sway
He registered ashen snow and Fibonacci sequences
In the scales of the pinecone, in the evergreen
Needles, and in the steadily increasing flurries.
At a stalemate for minutes past dusk and hours
Until dawn, the evening's lunar fluorescence had
Peaked in reflective moonlight and begun to dim.
Skyward flurries took of frost as he overtook
Diminishing footprints; the soil had lost its warmth.
Presently the frangible flakes were solidifying.
Tireless sets of footprints, encrusted by an iced-glaze
Like a frozen sheen of sweat and dead grass parted
Like a middle-aged man's baldness, were visible
Beneath the conifer's knotted limbs and the
Tin-to-the-touch snowflake-threaded needles.
Photonegative greys and gossamer silver ton
The Death of LanguageThey say that every fourteen days, a language dies. The statistic isn't alarming, after all there are supposedly seven thousand languages in the world. That a language dies every two weeks, is just a statistic. The concern comes with the knowledge that a language dies because it has been forgotten. Thus it dies without recognition, without farewell and without acknowledgment. It was merely there before, a communication bridge once upon a literary dream - now a nothing. This fascinating tool that we use to interact with our fellow human beings is lost. And we don't care. The Eskimos, they say, had a hundred words for snow.
That favourite pair of shoes that you love all the holes and splits into because they are so perfect and fit you so well - gets a better send off than a language. That coat that's become too small or too big, or too much last years fashion and too little of this years craze gets more of a farewell than a languag
Ferris WheelI didn't want to die. That day
you took me to California Adventure
Park, the sucky twin
to Disneyland, place of magic
and an animatronic Abraham
with my face and fists
pinched up like shrunken underwear
you brought me like a load of laundry
to the Ferris Wheel, the ride
swinging in the air like a death sentence.
I wanted to go home. I wanted
cotton candy. Not this death-trap,
this winding machine of hellish
revolution. Did you see!?
One of those cars was shaking!
It's on purpose?!
Is that supposed to be fun!?
I was still small back then. Terrified
of anything faster than our Nissan Quest,
which we rode here, along
with my sister's friends
who looked like candy sticks,
colorful and thin.
I didn't know we were having money trouble.
Or that Grandma was tyrannical towards you,
leaving you with the same feeling of neglect
I had, every time you had to leave for work
rolling dumplings to hold off deficit.
I didn't know that the world
was crueler than any
amusement park ride.
Take a look at the rest of their Gallery
is a vast group accepting all types of prose and poetry, including fan-fiction. With the talent of over 10,000 members you are sure to find a broad spectrum of written work. Aside from that the group has a special critique folders for poetry and prose which members may submit to once a month and each month they choose a "Member of the Month" to feature.
”We are a group for all writers! We welcome prose, poetry, song lyrics, fan fiction, and all other types of literature.
We are focused on literature and dedicated to the growth and development of our authors. If you love reading and writing, then this is the club for you! We are here to support and challenge you to think outside the box and to experiment and grow! "
- from Writers--club
’s Group Info
You can read Writers--club
's general rules here!
The rules of their Critique Program may be found here on the left-hand side of the page
Their current Member of the Month for December 2012
Recently the group put out a call for members to share their fellow deviants who've been published
to be the group's Member of the Month.
certain soundscertain sounds you are used to hearing over and over again:
click and drizzle of Keurig coffee maker
whoosh and creak of screen door closing
ancestral Russian-Hasidic inflections in the way you pronounce your H's
rustle of curtains and bedsheets
tap tap of your own feet
how can I help you
how're you doing
click and drizzle of Keurig coffee maker
snap of shampoo lid
roiling boiling water
Sail to Imperfect ParadiseMiss Charlotte Merrigold's ninth birthday was a formal occasion. She pinned her hair with fish bones, wore a skirt of torn sail, and held a matching pair of seashells by her ears. A small puppy that had followed her down to the seaside became the eager young prince, and yells from the nearby pier music to dance to. As the night grew colder the girl lit a rainbow fire and told Prince all the stories she knew. She told him about the mermaid that kissed Pat the Pirate but had no legs for him to spread, about a man named Will who was hung for blowing his nose on his sleeve, and her own story about a girl who stole and got away with it.
Prince must not have thought much of her stories for he, who was secretly a mutt but had fine enough ears to be sired by Mr. Hamsworth's dog, draped his body across her lap and snored. After that she braided kelp until the tide touched her toes.
Eleven years later Prince died behind the Old Fisherman Inn and Charlotte boarded a ship with sails, cannons, and
the art of missing you.he wakes up one day to find you gone. perched on top of your the pillow next to his, he finds a small note, paper curled up on its side. it read;
i'm sorry to inform you, but your name has been taken away.
he blinks in disbelief at the slip of paper in his hand. kicking the covers off, he bolts out of bed and runs through the house, checking closets, cupboards, the shower. he ends up in front of the shoe cupboard, with a look of shock permanently seared into his face.
with you, he laughs and runs full pelt into the ocean, uncaring if the water splashes directly into his eyes or if he loses his ice cream cone in the tinkling water.
without you, he takes a step at a time, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and flinches as the frosty water laps at his toes.
with you, he sleeps soundly through the sounds of the shower, the banging of closet doors, but he doesn't sleep through the smell of breakfast.
without you, he finds himself awake at the ex
Kill the GodsForgotten gods cluster together like constellations of post-mortem scars forming,
crystallised ocean remnants,
salt pressed and tattooed on the skin of human history
composing salt crystals and fingerprints and decomposing like dying cells and skeleton leaves.
The tides of us, washed and blurred at the edges,
smoothed like fossilised wood and glass pebbles littering waves of resurrections
reborn and torn asunder
the thunder of their hearts silenced as they
sleep (if gods sleep at all)
in infinity with the fishes on the ocean bed
(the quiet ocean death) of humanity’s collective
I wonder where the ghosts of gods go
where the scales of those sleeping fishes lie on that soft sea bed
without a priest or saint to exorcise the remains
of prayers whispered in those uneasy heads.
In ruined churches or over the mouths of graves
kissed into temple walls that crumble before these dying lords
We kill them in still mornings
when our faith fades under the sunlight, ev
Take a look at the rest of their Gallery