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About Varied / Hobbyist Deryk Black24/Male/Australia Recent Activity
Deviant for 6 Years
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Statistics 39 Deviations 451 Comments 4,411 Pageviews

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Mature content
Pickets :iconshoulder-bird:shoulder-bird 0 0
Looking back by shoulder-bird Looking back :iconshoulder-bird:shoulder-bird 0 1 Broomstick Knight by shoulder-bird Broomstick Knight :iconshoulder-bird:shoulder-bird 1 1
Ashen Christmas
The atmosphere has changed. It is neither heavy nor light, neither joyous nor sorrowful, most days. The sun's light has trouble piercing through the clouds. Even today I cannot see it, but the air is brighter. I can feel the sun beyond the chilled horizon. The south winds blow bitter and coldly, but there is solace in the light. The concrete city, painted white by ash, gleams with an unfamiliar warmness - a warmness that was, perhaps, familiar once; the fires blazing in the midst of a slow and peaceful winter. The coldness itself is what is warm, for the memories of warmness that it brings. The atmosphere has changed. There is warmth found in an endless sea of grey. The winter itself is a beacon of comfort. But just for today.
The ash falls like memory; for a second I see snowflakes, floating timidly down, light glimmering on their white-rendered fractal designs, hand-crafted crystals falling like dryad's tears onto the grey concrete. But it has always been ash - cold, coarse ash - and
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The Field of the Mind
Beyond the halcyon sunset
Lies a vibrant, floral heath,
I often go and sit to rest there,
In its timeless, drowsy sheath,
For the air lends me to musing,
And the sounds goad me to write,
For I am always quite alone there,
Save the birds that twirl and song there,
For I have other kinds of friends there,
In that haven out of sight.
There are colours that resound,
Blues and Reds that sound like Violets,
A sheet of tulips that like sirens
Sing with voices wrought of dreams;
Airborne sheets of vibrant yellows,
From the songbird's whistle spun,
From the wind's breath on the lilies,
From the prelude of the sun,
From the vernal scent of morning,
Whisp'ring white when all is sung.
The shadow there still comes,
Just as often as it should,
The lunar sphere its dark hem weaves
Casting quiet o'er the wood,
Yet is stayed in part by memory,
Safely kept at bay by light,
That nature in her total wisdom
Ruled should ever wait behind,
To shine in leaves, in songs, in memory,
'Til the passing of the nigh
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The Antechamber: Book One
In the dim light, a page turns, upsetting the long dormant dust of forgotten years.
"The window, as I have called it," one book reads, "is a curious room crafted completely from an indestructible, green and glass-like substance; the substance is is quite thin, yet it is so remarkably durable that any force I have yet attempted against it has been completely ineffective in breaking it. It was fairly warm in there when Renard and I visited it; perhaps due to the mechanical whirring not unlike clockwork which can be heard, continually for the most part but stopping in short, twenty-second intervals. Renard said he felt the ground shifting, but I think it may have just been the way the floor was rumbling.
"Beyond the glass, which seemed to be shaped into a circular room with a rounded point at one side (perhaps not unlike a drop of water) we saw nothing but a sheer black void that stretched as far as could be seen. No point of reference within that murk was visible, although we admit that
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The Antechamber Ex.1 : Hallway
I do not know what happened. My memories of that day seem to recollect a grand feeling of pressure and of cold. I remember the wind and I remember those words she said to me; keep your eye on the mirror. I remember looking out of a window, seeing the snow fall in malign torrents as though the world itself was decrying its people's right to comfort and warmth. I remember a distinct song playing in endless repeat; a tune, unfinished, but of such ambient buoyancy as to evoke feelings not dissimilar to the calm after a difficult storm.
That night, I had a dream, which I do remember very well. It was by no means an ordinary night-vision; whose sleepy, nocturnal depths feel as if they are perfectly real until one awakes. In this dream, I was in a hallway that neither seemed to end nor begin. My footsteps rung hollow and vague; not the slightest echo reached my ears . The dark, aged timber that comprised the floor and the walls was like ice to the touch. I could feel nothing else. Even
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The Winters' Cafe: Edge
There was a time, you see, when the gun and the bullet were considered the weapons of cowards and thieves. A blackhearted sort of weapon, they'd say, with some degree of truth to back them. The gun has a particular sort of ease to its operation, the bullet has a range able to best the swiftest and truest arrow and the wound it leaves is rarely a trifling one. To the untrained, it all seems too easy.
Point, click.
The bullet leaves the chamber and subsequently leaves its deadly signature on the victim's heart. To those watching on from the sidelines, there's a sharp crack and a thud as the body hits the floor. It's all over in an instant. What happened? Not a lot. Where's the glory? There isn't any. That's what they say.
But times change, of course. The world isn't as simple as it used to be. Targets become faster, skin becomes harder, reflexes become sharper... and soon the simple act of point, click becomes a little more like fencing. An endless stre
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Kiya Holmes: For CC123.
The standard order of things was, I noticed, rarely the best way to get things done. A bumbling squad of ill-trained 'officials', doing some ridiculous dance around the crime scene, tipping and disrupting all evidence, causing all sorts of havoc, removing all chance of ever finding a satisfactory verdict. Conjecture would be tossed to and fro, attention paid to the most irrelevant details, and eventually the inspector would stand up from whatever seat he had fallen asleep in and yell;
"I have found the murderer! It was clearly the butler, for he was in the room with the victim and his clothes are stained with his blood! Besides the victim, he was the only one with access to this room! It is in-discussible! It is in-debatable! It is in-refutable!"
Nodding agreements would follow, a shuffling of boot-clad paws would fill the air, irons would be clasped on the butler, the scene would be tidied up and they would all start to go home.
Of course, that is normally when the usual order of thin
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Pacing trepid through the ruins,
Dust and cobbles crush beneath,
Torpid winds creep 'round the rubble,
As the moon shines down beneath,
Smoky drifts flow low and sallow,
Drifting up from shafts beneath,
Take a whiff and try to swallow,
Fetid air that dwells beneath,
Swirling 'round a mighty tower,
Whose remains now lie beneath,
Rushing up from buried hallways,
Roiling restless from beneath,
Churning vapid cries of mourning,
Call from broken tombs beneath,
Disturbing plaited cloth and chalice,
In the grander rooms beneath,
Deftly climbing gilded stairwells,
Where railings rust and fall beneath,
Breaking loud upon the surface,
Rustling grass and soil beneath,
Spreading voices on the airwaves,
Screaming tales of blight beneath,
Dissipating on the landline,
Finding cleaner ground beneath,
Forever lost of sunken prisons,
That writhe and tear the Earth beneath,
Forever free of tainted tower,
Which I now stand lone beneath.
And yet a single flower blooms here,
Roots now grappling deep beneath
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Hazy Fortress.
This is nothing special,
You could think of it as such,
I'd understand it.
Just a few short words,
Words sent out to all those who care to listen,
A misdirected shot at a chance to confess.
This would be the first time
That I have faced my fears
Of talking with the sparrows,
Of siding with the voices,
That I have come to hear.
Still, this may be the first time
that we have held our gaze,
This place is strange and dark,
But your eyes are stranger yet...
And I do not feel afraid.
This is not the first time that
we gave it to the wind,
Opening on the stage, we watched it,
Eyes enrapt with wonder and our
souls filled with regret.
Cannot feel
The essence,
That mystifying essence
of the words that you pray.
Your hands are cold,
Much colder than the air
and world around me,
Yet warmer than your mind.
For that there is a cure, I said,
But no cure can cure time
Cannot grasp
The timing.
The unwelcome turn of sequence,
The day we walked away.
This place,
Dark and cold,
Still, your eyes are co
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BICR: Golf, and Why It's Best.
Most of everybody's time nowadays is spent either doing nothing, contemplating doing nothing or arguing with everyone about how the world should be seeing things as they see it, which is a shame, really, because when the Universe and the people living in it aren't doing nothing or bickering about some physical, logical or legal law, there really are some genuinely good times to be had.
Golf, for instance, is one of these, says semi-renowned scientist Jeremy Fodd from Somewhere Or Other We Hadn't Heard Of. Sure, he says, it may be the king of the most terminally uninteresting pastimes to ever have been pulled forth from the twisted, addled minds of those kinds of people who actually spend hours creating sports for other people to play, but (says Fodd), Golf is the most scientifically interesting sport one can ever take part in.
That is to say, he used science to prove the viability of a recreational pastime. If that made any sort of sense, we'd have to give this man a meda
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Glass Tower. by shoulder-bird Glass Tower. :iconshoulder-bird:shoulder-bird 2 19
You Will Never Be Alone.
I once told you, a long time ago,
that we'd be together forever.
The words left my mouth casually; like an idle promise,
after all,
for ones such as us, it was altogether possible.
Time's ineffective grasp had no restrain on our immortal souls.
And yet, doubt kept you distant,
kept your eyes fixed on an unknown future,
a time neither of us knew.
A demon resided in the emptiness of our stranger dreams,
driving us to fear,
tearing our minds from what we knew to be real.
Where are you now?
Perhaps it was the doubt that caused you to fade,
slipping faster into the enveloping folds of memory,
swiftly passing from sight and mind,
You became a shade of your former self,
a penstroke in a book,
a chronicle of forgotten things.
I stand amidst the vapour of your presence.
The imprint of your touch still lingers on my hands,
but only barely.
You have forgotten all,
and what little memory I have left,
is fast melting into oblivion.
But I do not stand idly.
A collection of jaded things hangs from my
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Seven. by shoulder-bird Seven. :iconshoulder-bird:shoulder-bird 0 0
It is always unsettling, looking retrospectively on what has already been from the cold, unchanging perspective of finality. It's never quite what we expected it would be when first we set out upon our various journeys of reckless ambitions and misplaced dreams.
Looking back, one realises that things are never what they once might have appeared to be. One realises that dreams are not promises, but merely the windows one chooses to look through for their bright and decorated panes... failing to notice the black, storm-weary night beyond them.
Perhaps we do see the stormclouds. Perhaps we do hear the thunder they generate. Perhaps we are blinded by the dream and its beauty. We want to believe in it because we cannot bear to let it go.
This is not true desire. It is not true want. It is not true need. To be blind to what one truly wants is merely self-deception.
It is obsession.
We fantasize about what we perceive the most beautiful idea, the most beautiful mindset, the most beautiful per
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Deryk Black
Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
I'm the nightingale on your shoulder. Supposing you have one there.



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redsalsa Featured By Owner Feb 20, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Hello! You inspired me with your deviant comment to give this site a second look, of which I am glad.

...what I am not glad of however is I have spent over an hour on this thing, it is slightly addictive.
shoulder-bird Featured By Owner Mar 3, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Haha. Sweet. ^.^

Yeah. I get that. Haven't been on here in aaaages, myself. I only ever come here when I have something to upload, heh. Which is why I never have a community presence, no doubt. XD
EpicPaladin Featured By Owner Nov 12, 2011  Hobbyist General Artist
Just wanted to say thanks for critiques of my book, it's good to have another person peer edit my work.
shoulder-bird Featured By Owner Nov 12, 2011  Hobbyist General Artist
Always welcome, bucko. Let me know when you need more assistance. =P
ShikharSrivastava Featured By Owner Oct 30, 2011  Professional General Artist
Welcome to :iconshikharsportal:
If you have any spare points lying around there then do help us by donating points here [link] to make our group a super group.

Note: If you donate 300 points or more, you can be the co-founder of our group.

HimitsuUK Featured By Owner Aug 31, 2011   Photographer
Hello! I'm not sure if you are aware, but I recently moved accounts from HARUHIKONATA to this one! Which is a lot better.

Since I was on your watch-list I thought I'd let you know! You are really welcome to rewatch this new account!

Thank you very much as always!
whiteflyinglizard Featured By Owner Jun 20, 2011
thanks for the watch
shoulder-bird Featured By Owner Jun 21, 2011  Hobbyist General Artist
More than welcome, mon capitan. I really enjoyed your work. I look forward to more. ^.^
HARUHIKONATA Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2011
Thanks a lot!! :D
camau Featured By Owner Jun 4, 2011  Hobbyist General Artist
hi! it tagged you [link]
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