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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
July 18, 2015
Whim-N-Wonder, in her Birds, turns the peaceful chatting of birds outside one man's house into the most haunting, disturbing presence.
Featured by TheMaidenInBlack
Literature Text
The birds are watching me. They stared at me when I left my house, so I went back inside. They watched me through the windows, so I bolted the curtains shut. Now they are listening to how my lungs expand and deflate through the cracks and peepholes in the walls and the foundation. They're trying to tell me something. I think they want to kill me.
-
They sing now. The sparrows, the blue jays, the finches, and the cardinals. They sing me a quiet lullaby as I lie in my bed at night. Or maybe they're mocking me. Calling me a coward. A failure. My mother always liked birds. As a child I always thought she spoke to them in a way they understood.
-
The mail came today. Normally I would let it sit outside my door and erode and rot in the weather, but something felt different. The birds were silent. No nursery rhymes or a-Capella jazz was bleeding through the walls. No mocking. No spies. I creaked the front door open and peaked out. The grass was tall and unkempt and the garden was now filled with more weeds than flowers. I put a foot on the wooden floor of the porch. It moaned in dismay. It had been awhile since my skin and flesh caressed its oak boards and caused the sagging supports underneath to cry out in pain. Quickly, I grabbed the pile of envelopes and left the outside world once more.
-
A doctor sent me a letter a month ago. Then he sent me another a few weeks later. Then another and another. He kept recommending psychiatrists to me and telling me I need to see one. For my "problems". What right does he have to tell me what to do? I'm fine. I'm great. I'm perfect. Those doctors just want my money. They're scammers and thieves.
-
The birds are back. They do not sing, they only chirp and tweet melancholily. I missed them.
-
A hundred pairs of starry eyes watched me from around my bedroom. They glowed in the faint moonlight that slithered lazily through the open window. I looked closely at them. Their colors were hidden by the darkness. Their eyes showed no malice. They missed me, too.
I crawled out of bed and glided softly to the middle of the room. One bird, little like he had just learned to fly out of his nest, fluttered over to me. I raised my hand and he perched himself on my finger. We gazed at each other for a long moment. Then he tweeted and gestured over to the window with his head. I walked over and let him hop onto the windowsill. It was still for a moment; then birds erupted out the window at both my sides and flew into the night. I watched them glide gracefully and happily through the sky. The little bird nudged my hand. They wanted me to fly, too.
I climbed onto the windowsill. I didn't look over the edge. I looked to the birds. Taking in a deep breath, I let go of the edge. And I flew awa-
-
They sing now. The sparrows, the blue jays, the finches, and the cardinals. They sing me a quiet lullaby as I lie in my bed at night. Or maybe they're mocking me. Calling me a coward. A failure. My mother always liked birds. As a child I always thought she spoke to them in a way they understood.
-
The mail came today. Normally I would let it sit outside my door and erode and rot in the weather, but something felt different. The birds were silent. No nursery rhymes or a-Capella jazz was bleeding through the walls. No mocking. No spies. I creaked the front door open and peaked out. The grass was tall and unkempt and the garden was now filled with more weeds than flowers. I put a foot on the wooden floor of the porch. It moaned in dismay. It had been awhile since my skin and flesh caressed its oak boards and caused the sagging supports underneath to cry out in pain. Quickly, I grabbed the pile of envelopes and left the outside world once more.
-
A doctor sent me a letter a month ago. Then he sent me another a few weeks later. Then another and another. He kept recommending psychiatrists to me and telling me I need to see one. For my "problems". What right does he have to tell me what to do? I'm fine. I'm great. I'm perfect. Those doctors just want my money. They're scammers and thieves.
-
The birds are back. They do not sing, they only chirp and tweet melancholily. I missed them.
-
A hundred pairs of starry eyes watched me from around my bedroom. They glowed in the faint moonlight that slithered lazily through the open window. I looked closely at them. Their colors were hidden by the darkness. Their eyes showed no malice. They missed me, too.
I crawled out of bed and glided softly to the middle of the room. One bird, little like he had just learned to fly out of his nest, fluttered over to me. I raised my hand and he perched himself on my finger. We gazed at each other for a long moment. Then he tweeted and gestured over to the window with his head. I walked over and let him hop onto the windowsill. It was still for a moment; then birds erupted out the window at both my sides and flew into the night. I watched them glide gracefully and happily through the sky. The little bird nudged my hand. They wanted me to fly, too.
I climbed onto the windowsill. I didn't look over the edge. I looked to the birds. Taking in a deep breath, I let go of the edge. And I flew awa-
Literature
Rain
She was bloated, swollen in her
Own melancholy moisture
Threadbare at her contours
Unravelled into gray woolen
Strings, too loose for her skin
And they drained off her shoulders
To pool in a waxy heap by her
Ivory heel-bones.
She was rounded by opaque
Moons, liquid apricity. The life
In her womb churned, awakening
From quiescence. Her being
Shuddered from the maelstrom within
And in a great wailing cry of woe
Her waters burst in a ferocious
Deluge, catharsis.
She roiled under each contraction
As unearthly poetry thundered from her
Throat, emblazoned with lightning. Her
Child is birthed, swaddled in her failing
Body, decrescendo heart
Literature
Writer
I am a scientist;
Pinning down ideas
like butterflies
preserving them in
their fragile beauty
as I take away their freedom,
their life.
I am a parasite;
sucking the soul out
of music and leaving it
a hollow shell
that plays like
the noisy silence in
my ears.
I am a thief;
taking what is not mine,
the world around me,
and pouring it into
a mould that
I claim is
my own.
I am a blasphemer;
playing God in a
sacred place, changing
the world to my
liking when the orchestra
is not under my
conduction.
I am a liar;
selling false havens
to lonely runaways,
giving them a glimpse
of a world more glamorous,
more fantas
Literature
even mountains
even mountains have peaks and valleys
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A DD?! What?!?! Thank you so much! Thank you for the wonderful feature TheMaidenInBlack !
This is my entry for the second round of the Flash Fiction Competition: obsydiandreamer.deviantart.com…
The prompt was "Unreliable Narrator, 527.5 Words Long". This was a fun prompt!
This is my entry for the second round of the Flash Fiction Competition: obsydiandreamer.deviantart.com…
The prompt was "Unreliable Narrator, 527.5 Words Long". This was a fun prompt!
© 2015 - 2024 Whim-N-Wonder
Comments26
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That is so good. Reminds me of "The Yellow Wallpaper"