stormsinmidsummer

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Prodigal Son by stormsinmidsummer, literature

Literature

Prodigal Son

He squandered his wealth in wild living. It started off innocently enough: a few extra drinks here and there, an extra pack of cigarettes, a diamond necklace for the woman he thought he was going to marry. Then there was a round for the whole bar to celebrate a promotion. And another round for the hell of it. He’ll call it a night and pick up three dozen roses to apologize for forgetting a birthday. Forgiven, he’ll be out again, buying a car that was a little too nice and a little too fast for the streets. He’d test it, though, and pay the fines. He didn’t quite realize what he was rising, so he risked a little more. He bought a nice house on a hill for his woman and rented a small apartment on the other side of town for his girls. He bought another round of drinks, this time just for his boys. Then another round of drinks for the whole club. They didn’t really care about him, but he liked the sound of his name on their lips. He asked two tourists to say it all night long back in the

a moment during the rain by stormsinmidsummer, literature

Literature

a moment during the rain

She stood in the doorway, shoulder pressed against the doorframe and arms wrapped loosely around her waist. Outside, the rain created a veil that obscured most of the street. Great puddles of water formed in the cobblestones and threatened to push over the threshold. Already the hem of her dress was splattered with rain. Her heels were firmly on the rough floorboards, but her toes were on the cobblestones. He watched her in silence from the thin mattress in the corner. His fingers worried at the holes in the blanket. “You don’t have to stay,” he said, his voice soft. He wasn’t sure she could even hear him over the r

Boreas by stormsinmidsummer, literature

Sister Sister by stormsinmidsummer, literature

Literature

Sister Sister

The cloud swings to the right to face the breath from her throat. The belief in soft blue eyes find the last prayers of a final Generation. Stayers always forget candles tell the best lies. The mud ruins read leather rocks. We kiss lead apples that cut the words from our teeth. She screams, “Brother, where are my fingers?” Yes, I lost a bet to Marcel. The frogs are wavering under water. Important tongues bruise my bedtime stories. They are logs to be burned while dancing feet are turned to a sharp heavy song of night.

Dear Mr. Eliot by stormsinmidsummer, literature

Literature

Dear Mr. Eliot

We are the hollow men; we are the stuffed men. We drink bottles dry, throw empty plates, stitch up our beaten hands. We may be the hollow men (hollow men, hollow men) fitted with dry tongues and dry throats and cracked fingers to drag us across uneven bricks, but I carry metal in my bones, wear asphalt against my knuckles. Every scar has built me— I never simply marched to Death’s Other Kingdom.

One Second More by stormsinmidsummer, literature

Literature

One Second More

One second more until the glass shatters Allowing amber to drip drip across the floor. In the mess, she’ll say none of it matters One second more. In his hands, he offers another bottle to pour, Ignoring the way her dress sits in tatters, Forgetting to remember all the promises he swore. There is something there beneath the clatter, Churning between unspoken words, ready and sure, Waiting. Waiting for when time scatters. One second more.

First Dance by stormsinmidsummer, literature

Literature

First Dance

This is me being brave—dancing on the fire escape while Mozart drifts from her bedroom window. She slips out and presses her lips to my nape. This is me being brave—dancing on the fire escape. She’ll lead me in and lay my head on the pillow. Slow start, lips part. Around us, the beige curtains billow. This is us being brave—dancing on the fire escape While Mozart drifts from her bedroom window.

I Can't Be a Rom-Com by stormsinmidsummer, literature

Literature

I Can't Be a Rom-Com

Sunday night TV romances act out the ways how I could have saved you, loved you whole again. Good men, they suggest, are broken—tragedies running from past mistakes they felt forced to make. Spending years in the same old silence, you packed yourself away in childhood games of you and I—saving and saved. Then you showed up with a vase full of dollar store roses; if I had followed the script, I would have kissed you. But you’re two decades of hurt. Even if my hands were gentle or my words meaningful, I never could’ve loved you better. My kisses are fragments. You know me; I’m broken too.

The Cure by stormsinmidsummer, literature

Literature

The Cure

My great grandfather used to give me wine, a few droplets on my tongue to get me to finally shut up after hours of my mother cradling me with a baby bottle in hand. There were monsters in my stomach. They came alive when she fed me as if milk were a cause for war. I kicked my feet as if I could kick them out. I screamed until my great grandfather lulled me to sleep. I still cry instead of resting, an empty glass of Cabernet sitting on my nightstand. The bottle's hidden from my restless hands.

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Prodigal Son by stormsinmidsummer, literature

Literature

Prodigal Son

a moment during the rain by stormsinmidsummer, literature

Literature

a moment during the rain

Boreas by stormsinmidsummer, literature

Sister Sister by stormsinmidsummer, literature

Literature

Sister Sister

Dear Mr. Eliot by stormsinmidsummer, literature

Literature

Dear Mr. Eliot

One Second More by stormsinmidsummer, literature

Literature

One Second More

First Dance by stormsinmidsummer, literature

Literature

First Dance

I Can't Be a Rom-Com by stormsinmidsummer, literature

Literature

I Can't Be a Rom-Com

The Cure by stormsinmidsummer, literature

Literature

The Cure

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Paradox by TardisGhost, literature

inspired compulsion by curls-and-yelling, literature

Literature

inspired compulsion

Pen poised above paper, and you are filling my mind, encapsulating my thoughts and nowhere in the ink dripping on this no-longer blank page. Through the years of bleeding lines and shuddering inhales I've endured, it seems so easy for you to bloom black across the emptiness of my ribcage. You were a meadow, you were a dream, you were darkness, you were clean. You've shut up my pretentious babble and made me freezing and real Maybe it's just the drugs, but I want to see where it goes.

Deviation Spotlight

Temperance in the Reversed by stormsinmidsummer, literature

Literature

Temperance in the Reversed

Abigail Wash had seen the mafia push a beat-up Model T into the lake. And she had told the town about it for five days. It wasn’t that they didn’t believe her; it was that they didn’t know what she wanted them to do about it. She would insist on pulling the car from the lake and her daddy said he only needed a few good men to help with the wrenching. But no few good men wanted to know what the mafia didn’t want them to know. Men cut from a less moral cloth told Abigail to keep silent. And after those five days, she fell silent on the topic of the car. Although for the next six years until her daddy lost the house she

Temperance in the Reversed

stormsinmidsummer

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About stormsinmidsummer

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Artist // Literature

June 18, 1994
United States
Deviant for 13 years
She / Her

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My Bio

I write sometimes. I try to paint other times. Mostly I just read and pretend I know a thing or two about education.

I gave up on sharing my work awhile ago. And so I haven't really posted in years, but I am trying to recreate this.

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YouInventedMe

Jun 18, 2019

Happy Birthday!

xlntwtch

Dec 21, 2017

Thanks for the star...

Gevio

Sep 18, 2017

thank you for the fav Mel!

DarkStar016

Sep 14, 2017

Thank you for the support and favorite! I've been meaning to read "Temperance in the Reversed"!! Can't wait to get to it. I'll make sure to leave a ocmment. Have a llamaful day!