Friday Feature #4

Do you know the taste of the universe?One day, when you’re five years old and made out of fractured sunlight and mirror shards, you sit down on the bench of the MAX train. You’re dressed in your winter coat and boots that are too big and one of your parents has pulled your hat too close over your ears.
You’re sitting next to your mother, and on the other side is a man that smells like loneliness, something that you’ll later know as cigarettes and alcohol and homelessness. He’s crying quietly into the top of his jacket and you’re scared to look because you’ve never seen an adult cry.
The train ride goes on for five minutes, which is a long time to you, and eventually you sneak a look at the crying man who smells like Portland and loneliness, and he sees you. He leans down until you can see the red lines in his eyes and he whispers to you.
“Do you know the taste of the universe?”
And you look up at him with your little-girl eyes and shake your head because you can’t
Do you know the taste of the universe?, by Synesthi is thought-provoking and amazingly poignant; in which she writes with truth through her youth and personal experiences. Read on.

paper hearts.        There’s a crevice in the wall where she hides her little baby girl, all plastic smiles and mechanical giggles. She cuddles it like it has a soul and speaks to it like it has a name. Its soft rubber skin has been covered with paper hearts and marker stars, and its little plastic ears have been filled with whispers of adoration and love. Its wiry blonde hair has been crossed into braids, twisted up above its head, and she has pulled a dress onto its synthetic body with the brightest little smile. She reminds it that it’s beautiful, even though it can’t hear. She fastens it tight into the beaten pink stroller and skips behind it as it rolls across the pavement, dancing in the sun like there is no tomorrow and yesterday is only a dream.
        And maybe she's only six years old, but she knows how babies are made. Not the ones you buy in the store, the ones you have to tear out of the cru
paper hearts., by t-writes-poems writes beautifully as this piece unravels in front of your very eyes, and shows you another perspective to cherish the life of another human being.
Please respect the opinions of the author.

The Importance of Gold FlecksHereditary.   
        
        I learned the meaning of the word when I was young on a summer afternoon. Too hot to play outside, I was sitting with my dad on our blue couch with the small white polka dot fabric. In retrospect, it was probably a tacky piece of furniture, but love is unconditional when you are small, and I sure did love that couch. I remember my dad watching Winnie the Pooh with me every Saturday morning on its spotted cushions. That day, though, we had a conversation about eyes that I never forgot, and even then, its deeper meaning was not lost on me.
        
        "Daddy, your eyes are green like a cat's," I said.
He smiled, and told me that mine were also green, but unlike his, they changed colors. "Sometimes they are blue. Your eyes were so blue when you were a baby! Big and blue.... Someti
The Importance of Gold Flecks, by TheLunaLily is deeply moving and heartwarming; she talks about hereditary and memories that "hit home." Is definitely more than meets the eye (pun intended).


Replay, by AmateurEccentric is entrancing with it's powerful imagery and outstanding rhythm that really engage the reader; I've replayed this in my head a million times already.

northern nightswe'd lie in the snow
and he'd ask me if i knew what the northern
lights were made of --
of course i did. i'd start spewing science
and he'd sigh, real deep,
before taking my hand
and pointing my fingers to the sky.
no, he'd say, what they're really made of,
when real wasn't real, but whatever
he thought up in his head --
whatever he could dream the night before
as he slept among the nighthawks.
no, i'd say, what are they really made of?
when real was really just
the smile on his face
as he made up concoctions
he wouldn't remember tomorrow --
he would laugh and call me child
and say oh how much you need to learn,
my love, before spinning me a story
with starlit lips.
well, he'd say, those lights are fire, if you see them right,
but not just any fire; no,
they are fire from the ocean
lifted into the sky,
children of the moon that won't fade --
he would kiss red curls with butterfly-shut eyes,
and say, they're liquid fire, love,
a
northern nights, by Khaimin is breathtaking with fantastical imagery and incredibly alive; Paige writes as if we are actually there in her whimsical worlds. Don't miss this.

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doorway, by silver-ships-fly may be short, but says a lot; she writes with her own voice as if she is actually calling to you from this lovely piece.

Please check these deviants out and send them love! See you next Friday for the next Friday Feature! Oh, and please suggest pieces to me, I'd love to know what you think I should feature next!