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
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 her
Things Come Undone Part IIn 1919 the bulk of the American Expeditionary Force that had been sent to fight in France returned to the United States via New York City in steady waves. At first the city welcomed them with open arms and ticker tape parades. But soon the city grew tired of soldiers and the late arrivals found no help in transition back to their 'normal' lives, or even a friendly smile. The world was moving on, and they were expected to, as well.
"In New York City, we were broken up on the 12th, the soldiers from different states going to different barracks
Several of us hired a cab and went to a hotel in Trenton and found they were not anxi
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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.
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
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
Red Lipstick"You and Lars, then."
"He has a moped."
Sophie stole the fag from where it rested between my fingers. She always got drool on the butt, so I let her keep it and fished another one out from the pack in the pocket of my jeans. The embers glowed orange, and I could see how Sophie's blood-red lipstick clung to the end of cigarette.
"He looks a bit like James Dean, don't you think?" I turned towards her, so I was on my side. She answered me with a crooked smirk and looked towards the midday blue sky.
Sophie used her nail to knock off the ash, and slowly sat up straight. She shrugged and moved back to rest on her arms. The strap of her
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