brietta-a-m-f

Coffee or Tea?

32 Watchers162 Deviations

17.1K

Pageviews

Collections

As She Knows It

All

As She Knows It

Featured

Queen and Soldier (800 Words)

The Queen did what she could do to relax in her sitting room—pondering questions that lives would hinge on—when a knock came at her door. Through her exhaustion she stood to her feet and stepped to the mirror to check her reflection. There she smoothed the worry from her face, softening her aspect with a tender smile at the edges of her lips, placed her crown atop her head, and then stepped to the door. A Soldier stood proudly before her. His gaze was hard, his face tough, providing a look that could only be attained from bitter time spent on a battlefield. In the doorway he spoke bluntly, harshly, to his Queen, “I am not f

Reviews

Koala Chic

Chapter 1 Roswell, New Mexico has been the place of all weirdness but yet I have never seen anything weird in my life. I can't always say I haven't had a curiosity about extraterrestrials but this year all that hype just doesn't get me. My name is Susan Faym and I'm seventeen years old, almost eighteen. I don't have glasses but I'm geeky. I even put out my clothes for the whole week. My personal description isn't great but here it is-I'm blond with slightly wavy short hair, light green eyes and five foot five. I'm honest even though I do some bad things, more or less get in the wrong place at the wrong time. I live near Cactus Mountain

Critiques

Ode to Michigan Central Station

Why do I cry For things that are lost and broken Why do I cry for things that stand alone As the Age they were born to Faded into dust and memories Residing in forgotten photo albums And gray-haired minds Why do I cry For these examples of resiliency Of stature left to fend for itself against That rising tide of ignorant sentiment A far worse nemesis than Time Why do I cry For the grandeur that was Bright shining and rosy-cheeked in January air A century ago? When fedora's and parasols were de rigueur Strolling the lanes, boulevards and thoroughfares Wide lawns gleaming greenly before a new Life, A new Idea, a new Freedom so recently bor

Poems

Comments and Commenting

We all know that getting the exposure you want for your work is a tough endeavour here on dA. Despite the wonders of the site, the simple fact of the matter is that comments are hard to come by these days. There may be many reasons for this - lack of time on the part of many browsers, lack of interest, or simply: not knowing what to say. We've all been there at one point (some of us more than others), and it presented the question - "what is it that writers want out of a comment?" The only way to find the answer to this question was to set up a poll - which received an amazi

Tutorials

Fading Doubt,[Brighter Determination]

Photography

The Ballad of Serenity

Ocarina Tabs

Gajeel x Levy Stamp

Stamps

Twelve Moments In The Dead Of Summer

1. The sunlight glistens on her wet skin as she's walking towards the beach. He has never seen anything so beautiful in his life and even if the words seem to dry up in his throat, he knows what he is going to do next. 2. It hasn't rained for months now so it only takes a small spark from the cigarette to set the undergrowth on fire. On the first sign of fire they panic and run, never to look back but to remember years later, in nightmares, the crazy old man who lived in the shack nearby and was never seen since. 3. They lay together on the grass, watching the sun slowly go down behind the treeline. He takes her hand, old, wrinkled and frai

Need to Read

Ode to Michigan Central Station by Blacksand459, literature

Literature

Ode to Michigan Central Station

Why do I cry For things that are lost and broken Why do I cry for things that stand alone As the Age they were born to Faded into dust and memories Residing in forgotten photo albums And gray-haired minds Why do I cry For these examples of resiliency Of stature left to fend for itself against That rising tide of ignorant sentiment A far worse nemesis than Time Why do I cry For the grandeur that was Bright shining and rosy-cheeked in January air A century ago? When fedora's and parasols were de rigueur Strolling the lanes, boulevards and thoroughfares Wide lawns gleaming greenly before a new Life, A new Idea, a new Freedom so recently bor

Directions to the end of the world by SilverInkblot, literature

Literature

Directions to the end of the world

Take the first path you find. Go straight. Keep going. Past the grocery store; past the gas station. Leave the post office behind. Ignore all rest stops, ice cream shops, and stoplights. Toss the map – you don’t need it anymore. The city is dust behind you; cross the state border; leave the country. Swim across the ocean, walk over tundra, then ice. Keep going. If you fall off the edge, you’ve gone too far.

Burnt Orange by SilverInkblot, literature

I'm too poor to feel so middle class. by SilverInkblot, literature

Literature

I'm too poor to feel so middle class.

My teeth still ache from the dentist, but it doesn’t stop me from nibbling the cheese danish I bought at Kroger this morning, warmed by thirty seconds in the microwave. My mug of hot chocolate is too big, and I drink it all. The washer is on its last cycle; the cat is purring at my feet. Netflix is background noise to clacking keys, typing a transcript of middle class morning that I’ll later call a poem or a turning point, wondering when I became such an adult.

Vaguely heart-shaped by Anthony-Ryan, literature

reality by TheSockMonkeyWriter, literature

Night, Coffee, Reflections by Clevina, literature

Stockholm Syndrome by Meggie272, literature

Literature

Stockholm Syndrome

This morning tastes dry and dusty and alive and the Australian sun is already pouring on to my back, a thousand lashes for your crimes girl. I run, and run, and run, and the hot sand burns my soft bare feet, shaping calluses on my Scottish soles. My knees have dirt on them. Every rushing breath from my lungs sings of love. This is not my country, and it never will be, no matter how many fistfuls of red sand I grab and sift through my dirty-nailed fingers, no matter how many thorny little plants I tear up and press to the winter-white bone-ridged skin of my chest. The sand will slip away, the thorns will rip wincing-red holes in me and I'l

Van Gogh by Concora, literature

Greenware by SilverInkblot, literature

Literature

Greenware

God took a pottery class and could have spun perfect pots from the store-bought clay the instructor found half off with an expired coupon. He could have thrown slender vases on a rickety wheel or molded leather-hard discards into elegant tea cups. The glaze on his biscuits unblistered; His earthenware free of crackle; no shivering to be found on His mugs. God took a pottery class and made sure every piece was flawed, and called them perfect.

1