Writers of the Revolution, October 13

QuiEstInLiteris is rather amazing, all told, and definitely worth your time. Her work is gorgeous - her poetry equally so to her prose. She is in all likelihood one of my favourite prose writers on deviantART, due to her smart, clever, and unbelievably original work. She's one of the very few writers I will and do read chaptered works from, because her work is absolutely incredible. The one word I'd use to describe her work as a whole is 'charming' - all of her works are utterly charming, and it's been an incredible struggle, not just to find words to describe her writing, but to pick only four pieces by her that I completely adore. But here you go - enjoy!

Cassandra - Prologue and Part 1Even in death, Cassandra was lovely. 
Her hair cascaded over her ivory shoulders in sable cataracts, pooling in the soft hollow between her breast and throat. She was wearing the white nightgown, the one she knew I loved, and the fall had thrown it up, weightless, in gossamer drifts across her legs. Her bare toes were painted salmon-pink, the same colour as the roses in the crystal vase by the door.
So elegant, my Cassandra. I might have expected that she would sprawl, as one imagines that people do when they have died suddenly, but her body refused to surrender its accustomed grace. One hand curled beside her face; the other lay, palm up, across her cocked hips, its open fingers tenderly beckoning. Her eyes were closed, peaceful, the fringe of dark lashes sooty and familiar upon her fading cheek. Her lips were parted in expectation. At any moment, she would wake, look up at me, smile. Cassandra. 
My hand found the banister, gripped the aged wood and guided me down the stairs
Cassandra
“Don’t worry about them,” Luke told me as he arranged a fresh array of glasses on my tray. “Writers are queer as anything. They talk just to see how the words sound.”

“I’m pretty sure one of them called me a murderer,” I protested. “And stupid and ugly. And then that I’d make a good murder victim. I thought these sorts were supposed to have class.”
This is a classic (and recent!) example of why I enjoy QuiEstInLiteris's work so much - it's full of wit, humour and suspense, all so very deftly woven together. Not only does she poke fun at writers, she manages to weave in an intriguing -  and unsettling - plot, with characters that rise swiftly to life with a few perfect sentences of characterisation.

The SirenThere was a dead body on Sandie's back porch, and it was trying to get in.
She wrung the coffee out of the front of her shirt, made damn sure that all of her doors and windows were locked, and called Mike.
"Mike."
"Yeah? Sandie? That you?"
"You don't know anything about this, do you?"
"About what?"
"The zombie."
"Come again?"
"Mike, there's a zombie on my back porch. It's leaving smears on the glass door. Is it yours?"
"I... Could you repeat that?"
"Zombie, Mike. It's a dead body in a puddle of nasty, and it's leaving more nasty on my door. God, I can even smell it. This is one thorough job, man."
She edged away from the door, keeping an eye on the intruder beyond the glass. It was bloated and purple with decay, green and black fungus speckling its face. There was fluid coming out of its mouth and dripping from its nose. It had no eyes, and all indication of sex or age had rotted away.
"Robotic, maybe? One of its legs is about to fall off. You didn't sic one of your Cyber Derby friends
The Siren
"There was a dead body on Sandie's back porch, and it was trying to get in.

She wrung the coffee out of the front of her shirt, made damn sure that all of her doors and windows were locked, and called Mike.

"Mike."

"Yeah? Sandie? That you?"

"You don't know anything about this, do you?"

"About what?"

"The zombie."

"Come again?"

"Mike, there's a zombie on my back porch. It's leaving smears on the glass door. Is it yours?"
If you don't yet know her achingly brilliant so-called "little NaNo" already - this is a gorgeous, chaptered work by her (all the chapters can be found in this gallery). It's cunning, it's suspenseful, and it's brilliantly witty. Not to mention refreshingly original - what I like about her work that it's usually a lovely blend of charm, intrigue, and wit, with a dash of the macabre for spice. It's also science fiction, so if you're still lollygagging about, I don't know what to do with you. Go read it, it's breathtaking. (The story has not been completed yet, so if you have reservations about that, that's completely understandable.)

Autumn RainsThe Texas autumn, breached,
pours forth cathartic drops,
an ecstasy of tears
to cleanse her dusty eyes of the agonizing fall.
The brow of Texas boils
in cloudy greys and thunder
amid coyote calls electric
down the city-slicker's spine
dropping low.
The breath of Texas chills -
a saw-blade through the heat -
and screams the cloud stampede
across the hills.
The voice of Texas condescends
to whisper in the huisache
and whistle in the Spanish daggers
sparring with the mockingbird
to sing before she roars.
The mercy of Texas
is no relief -
this wild trickster goddess burns
then drowns.
Autumn Rains
"The voice of Texas condescends
to whisper in the huisatch
and whistle in the Spanish daggers
sparring with the mockingbird
to sing before she roars."
It's not only prose that QuiEstInLiteris is fantastic at. This is my favourite poem by her, and rightly so: the imagery of the poem is at once evocative and expressive, both fierce and colourful at the same time. The gorgeous enjambment present enhances the vivid language; the vocabulary is precise and quick to the cut, and the more beautiful for it. It's such a striking poem, full of love for Texas and yet depicting a violent, vicious portrayal. Gripping, is the word I'd use for it - and I haven't quoted the ending here, because I didn't want to spoil it, but read this poem for the killer ending, it is worth it, that ending is absolutely masterful.

AnnieThere was this old woman who used to live under the bridge across the street from my building. She smoked like a chimney, and spent all of the money she got on cigarettes, so we'd all take turns bringing her coffee and bagels, or a sandwich, or spaghetti or something. She never talked to anyone. I think she was mute. I think she had Tourette's, too, because she had this funny little twitchy thing going on all the time, and she would make weird noises that weren't actually words.
And she was an artist. She made these fun sculptures out of clothes hangers and things she found in the dumpster. She would build them overnight, then after a couple of days they'd disappear. I don't know whether the city came and picked them up, or she took them somewhere or what.
And then she died. I wasn't the one who found her. It was Shane From Upstairs who was taking her a plate of leftover barbecue and saw that fuck, she's not moving. And he put down the plate and rolled her over, and sure enough, she wa
Annie
"I bet she had loads of boyfriends. That face, old and dirty and sooty and creased and leathery, had a supermodel's bone structure behind it. She didn't age gracefully, but you could still tell, sometimes, when she lifted up her chin and looked down at you through calm, ice-blue Elizabeth Taylor eyes, that she was gorgeous underneath, always had been and always would be. I've never known anyone else who could wear a big black garbage bag like it was a fur stole. I bet she was a killer."
A thoughtful reflection on life, death, and to those left behind, with a basis in real life. This story is probably the first one I read by QuiEstInLiteris and it is absolutely beautifully done, moving and powerful. The whole story is carried out so well throughout, and never quite loses its poignancy, even after the second read.

We QuiEstInLiteris.

---

on A Return to Purpose by TBPow

...but ultimately, it is a trade off between the character and the incidents that have prompted me to write the story. You can write a story in two ways, either you have a completely developed character in your mind, and need an incident to demonstrate the characteristics, or you have an incident in your mind, and need a character to demonstrate the incident. I feel your piece falls in the latter.[Read more here.]

on (it's) twisted by flawedfairytale

There's a lot of dynamic verbs, which really melds well with the active nature of the poem. Going back to the imperatives, I like how you've used a few of those as well, which really emphasizes the feeling of control - of being controlled - in this short poem, and it doesn't feel overdone. I liked how you started each stanza with the same style of imperatives - 'twist twist twist', 'hold stretch and tighten'. In fact, I rather wish you had started the final stanza in the same way, if possible. Truth be told, I'm not really sure about the last stanza, as it moves away from the image of being twisted...[Read more here.]

---

:thumb16182239:

A fantastically well-laid out guide on stories and how to start writing. danielzklein's guide is chockfull of handy tips and insights that can help practically any prose-writer out, and approaches the idea of "how to write" with a variety of different ways.



SadisticIceCream is a fount of resources (a fount), and this, especially, is an incredibly useful and helpful resource. This guide helps you start off small, with submitting to those literature journals and magazines and e-zines that are all the rage today, with a brisk and concise manner.