Nikayna
I have within me a thousand stories, full of people both quiet and quite mad, creatures both fluffy and ferocious, and stars of every color
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Challenge of the Week #57: you’re god; rewrite the creation story. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Nikayna

I Keep Trying

There have been many creation stories.

First I tended to the oceans, to them that swam and drifted, them that hunted, and them that accepted their fate as prey. Soon the water was not enough, it was too limiting, they wanted more. So I allowed them to crawl upon the lands, to explore the fauna that sprang up from dirt and sand.

It wasn't long before even this was not enough. So I made the molds bigger. More ferocious. I gave them tools to hunt their brethren, and tools to chew the fauna. I looked down upon them, glorious in their diversity, and smiled.

My mirth was to be short-lived.

They chewed too much, hunted too much. The delicate balance of the resources I laid out for them became tenuous, and cracks began to show. The Earth herself trembled in anger, until finally she rained down holy destruction upon them, her fury seething with fire and tempest. 

And then they were gone.

A few survived, a bare few. My strongest creations. But what is a whole world without those that move through it? Who would appreciate the rainbow of flowers? Who could look upon those that survived the upheaval and wonder at their awesome fortitude?

So then I created new beings, them that stood on two feet and used their hands to create tools, art, homes, fire. Creators, out of the creator. The ultimate being. I didn't know what to expect. Creation, after all, is the opposite of destruction.

It took some time for me to understand the duality of these new beings, how strongly both sides of a coin could live within them. I thought upon scrapping them, thought about going back to the drawing board and starting again, but they are resilient. Like them that survived the first apocalypse, but with the ability to adapt, grow, change. The Earth trembles softly when they get too confident, but her silence stays my hand. Even she is fascinated by their sheer audacity.

So I wait.

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Challenge of the Week #57: you’re god; rewrite the creation story. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Nikayna
I Keep Trying
There have been many creation stories.

First I tended to the oceans, to them that swam and drifted, them that hunted, and them that accepted their fate as prey. Soon the water was not enough, it was too limiting, they wanted more. So I allowed them to crawl upon the lands, to explore the fauna that sprang up from dirt and sand.

It wasn't long before even this was not enough. So I made the molds bigger. More ferocious. I gave them tools to hunt their brethren, and tools to chew the fauna. I looked down upon them, glorious in their diversity, and smiled.

My mirth was to be short-lived.

They chewed too much, hunted too much. The delicate balance of the resources I laid out for them became tenuous, and cracks began to show. The Earth herself trembled in anger, until finally she rained down holy destruction upon them, her fury seething with fire and tempest. 

And then they were gone.

A few survived, a bare few. My strongest creations. But what is a whole world without those that move through it? Who would appreciate the rainbow of flowers? Who could look upon those that survived the upheaval and wonder at their awesome fortitude?

So then I created new beings, them that stood on two feet and used their hands to create tools, art, homes, fire. Creators, out of the creator. The ultimate being. I didn't know what to expect. Creation, after all, is the opposite of destruction.

It took some time for me to understand the duality of these new beings, how strongly both sides of a coin could live within them. I thought upon scrapping them, thought about going back to the drawing board and starting again, but they are resilient. Like them that survived the first apocalypse, but with the ability to adapt, grow, change. The Earth trembles softly when they get too confident, but her silence stays my hand. Even she is fascinated by their sheer audacity.

So I wait.
#prosechallenge  #god  #creation  #Itslit  #getlit 
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Written by Nikayna in portal Poetry & Free Verse

He Sang of Me

he sang of me in

baritone notes.

they held my lungs,

refused my breaths.

I covered my ears but

it amplified each

rich B-flat and

buttery G.

he reached below

the musical staff,

found what he wanted

beneath my skin,

the bass of his voice

reverberating the

flesh right off of

my bones. I made

him mine, I proclaimed

him so and claimed him

but when he finished

my song, he sang

another, for another

across the room.

and he sang of her

in baritone notes.

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Written by Nikayna in portal Poetry & Free Verse
He Sang of Me
he sang of me in
baritone notes.

they held my lungs,
refused my breaths.

I covered my ears but
it amplified each

rich B-flat and
buttery G.

he reached below
the musical staff,

found what he wanted
beneath my skin,

the bass of his voice
reverberating the

flesh right off of
my bones. I made

him mine, I proclaimed
him so and claimed him

but when he finished
my song, he sang

another, for another
across the room.

and he sang of her
in baritone notes.
#poetry  #music  #love  #lust 
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Written by Nikayna in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Mother Nature

my druids are dying

sick with a fever born of a

faith not all believe in.

your people have afflicted them,

thinking themselves holy and whole,

enclosed in armor they don't realize can't

Save them -

for Nokomis possesses strength

that comes from beyond soil, beyond memory.

she can make the smallest flower bloom -

fragile and honeyed -

and make the sky crack open its chest and retch

white hot flames in the same instant.

my druids are dying

but your god did not kill them -

it was you all along,

under a pretense of false humanity.

the earth shudders and weeps

as the light of its children fades and disappears,

but Nokomis sits smug and smiling.

she knows she will have the last say.

her earth knows how to heal itself,

a trick more ancient than the oldest bones.

you refused to learn.

she will crumble mountains to dust and dirt,

boil oceans away to nothing,

rip apart the land to its plates

and crack them, heaving the shards

into a sea of red lava

that will soon cool to black stone

and spin across the galaxy,

with no memory

of flowers or fish or humans or gods.

my druids may be dying

but when the earth heals and renews

they will be reborn.

not as the Savior or as myths.

not as golden idols or marbled perfection.

as a delicate white petal,

as the first seed that will become the

New Humanity.

and when the first child takes in its first breath,

Nokomis will watch

and remember.

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Written by Nikayna in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Mother Nature
my druids are dying

sick with a fever born of a
faith not all believe in.
your people have afflicted them,
thinking themselves holy and whole,
enclosed in armor they don't realize can't
Save them -

for Nokomis possesses strength
that comes from beyond soil, beyond memory.
she can make the smallest flower bloom -
fragile and honeyed -
and make the sky crack open its chest and retch
white hot flames in the same instant.

my druids are dying

but your god did not kill them -
it was you all along,
under a pretense of false humanity.

the earth shudders and weeps
as the light of its children fades and disappears,
but Nokomis sits smug and smiling.
she knows she will have the last say.
her earth knows how to heal itself,
a trick more ancient than the oldest bones.
you refused to learn.

she will crumble mountains to dust and dirt,
boil oceans away to nothing,
rip apart the land to its plates
and crack them, heaving the shards
into a sea of red lava
that will soon cool to black stone
and spin across the galaxy,
with no memory
of flowers or fish or humans or gods.

my druids may be dying

but when the earth heals and renews
they will be reborn.
not as the Savior or as myths.
not as golden idols or marbled perfection.

as a delicate white petal,
as the first seed that will become the
New Humanity.
and when the first child takes in its first breath,
Nokomis will watch

and remember.
#poetry  #freeverse  #nature  #earth 
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Written by Nikayna in portal Poetry & Free Verse

The Morning

of your death surprised me.

it broke warm and lazy,

with no clichéd rain clouds or chills.

birds sang in the elm trees.

Nancy walked her dog down the street.

traffic was still backed up

from Bell until Hope.

your last breath only stirred the air

for a second.

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Written by Nikayna in portal Poetry & Free Verse
The Morning
of your death surprised me.
it broke warm and lazy,
with no clichéd rain clouds or chills.
birds sang in the elm trees.
Nancy walked her dog down the street.
traffic was still backed up
from Bell until Hope.
your last breath only stirred the air
for a second.
#poetry  #death  #freeverse  #mourning 
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Written by Nikayna in portal Poetry & Free Verse

I Am a Poet - Destroyer Series (IV)

IV. Destroyer of Peace

I am a poet

inciter of rage

evoker of tears.

wicked words are bellowed at my window

paper burns outside my doorstep.

a ring of protest,

threatening my isolation.

I will not retreat

to the safety

of a large respectable crowd.

my words are sugar-free.

I will not hide the taste of my meat.

you cry on your knees,

hold out what's left of your heart,

but I will not be voiceless.

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Written by Nikayna in portal Poetry & Free Verse
I Am a Poet - Destroyer Series (IV)
IV. Destroyer of Peace

I am a poet
inciter of rage
evoker of tears.

wicked words are bellowed at my window
paper burns outside my doorstep.
a ring of protest,

threatening my isolation.
I will not retreat
to the safety
of a large respectable crowd.

my words are sugar-free.
I will not hide the taste of my meat.

you cry on your knees,
hold out what's left of your heart,
but I will not be voiceless.
#poetry  #poet  #series  #destroyer  #fini 
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Written by Nikayna in portal Poetry & Free Verse

I Am a Poet - Destroyer Series (III)

III. Destroyer of Beauty

I am a poet

painter of light

sketcher of dark.

canvases drip their colors

down the walls around me,

staining my arms,

dying my hair.

statues convulse on their bases,

smash their heads at my feet.

the pieces pierce my heels.

each red drop

of blood and paint,

each marble eye

and cracked lip,

become mine

to manipulate,

to breed awry.

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Written by Nikayna in portal Poetry & Free Verse
I Am a Poet - Destroyer Series (III)
III. Destroyer of Beauty

I am a poet
painter of light
sketcher of dark.

canvases drip their colors
down the walls around me,

staining my arms,
dying my hair.

statues convulse on their bases,
smash their heads at my feet.
the pieces pierce my heels.

each red drop
of blood and paint,
each marble eye
and cracked lip,
become mine

to manipulate,
to breed awry.
#poet  #beauty  #series  #destroyer 
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Prose Challenge of the Week #52: Pick a classic poem and re-write it, modernize it, and share your poetic interpretation of the piece. The winner will be chosen based on a number of criteria, this includes: fire, form, and creative edge. Number of reads, bookmarks, and shares will also be taken into consideration. The winner will receive $100 and will be placed first on our Spotlight page and the runner-up will receive 1000 coins. When sharing to social media, please use the hashtag #itslit
Written by Nikayna

Ozymandias

I once met a man who travelled the sands,

and he regaled me with this tale.

Of legs made of stone in the desert alone,

no sign of his chest or neck. Sunk in the sand rests

a shattered head, though in the frowning face of the dead

one can still divine the sculptor found him less than sublime.

On the pedestal beneath his nadir do these words appear:

"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; 

Look on my Works, ye mighty, and despair!"

Though the words are vain, nothing else remains.

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Prose Challenge of the Week #52: Pick a classic poem and re-write it, modernize it, and share your poetic interpretation of the piece. The winner will be chosen based on a number of criteria, this includes: fire, form, and creative edge. Number of reads, bookmarks, and shares will also be taken into consideration. The winner will receive $100 and will be placed first on our Spotlight page and the runner-up will receive 1000 coins. When sharing to social media, please use the hashtag #itslit
Written by Nikayna
Ozymandias
I once met a man who travelled the sands,
and he regaled me with this tale.

Of legs made of stone in the desert alone,
no sign of his chest or neck. Sunk in the sand rests

a shattered head, though in the frowning face of the dead
one can still divine the sculptor found him less than sublime.

On the pedestal beneath his nadir do these words appear:

"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; 
Look on my Works, ye mighty, and despair!"

Though the words are vain, nothing else remains.


#challenge  #weeklychallenge  #Itslit  #percywasoverrated  #ozymandias 
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Written by Nikayna in portal Fiction

Fairy Tail

“If you eat a faerie’s glamour, you become pudding and the faerie will slurp you all up,” Daisy said, hands on her hips. “Everyone knows that!” The boys looked up from digging a hole in the school yard, frowning at the girl with pink-ribboned pigtails.

“No one knows that, cause it ain’t true,” Jacob said, rubbing his cheek. “Are you gonna go find a better digging stick or what?”

“Isaac you’ve heard that story haven’t you?” she asked the other boy, crossing her arms.

“Sure I heard it,” he said, scraping dirt away from the sides of the hole to free a half-stuck earthworm. “Doesn’t mean I believe it.”

“Well it’s true,” she huffed, stalking away from them towards the oak tree. As she marched by the rosebushes, the girl sitting there by herself looked up from her book, but Daisy breezed past without a second glance.

She was used to being overlooked. Her mousy brown hair didn’t draw attention to her like Daisy’s fiery red hair. No one commented on her plain linen dresses, or complimented the white woolen sweaters she wore to conceal the swallowtail butterfly wings that grew out of her back. Only her bright blue eyes, an icy color like a cloudless sky at high noon, commanded any notice. It had been a source of amusement for the other kids at first, but after a week or two, their minds became fixated on other things, as kid’s minds are wont to do. It was in this way that a faerie girl could go to school with human children.

To get home, she at first walked along the roads of Teynbourgh, a dusty little farming town tucked away in the Western Prairie. Near the northern edge of town a dense grove of trees grew up out of nowhere, surrounding a small pond. Once inside the dense tree line, she peeled off the woolen sweater and shook out her wings, grateful to have them free once again. She happily bounced along the path, her wings propelling her nearly up to the tree canopy.

“How was school, Lucina?” her mother asked as she entered the small thatched house on the pond.

“A girl at school told stories about us, at playtime,” she answered. Her mother turned around, eyebrow raised. “She tried to convince two boys that we turn humans into pudding with our glamour and slurp them up.”

“Which girl?”

“Daisy.”

“Oh really,” her mother mused. The pink ribboned pigtailed girl had not been kind to her Lucina. “Well perhaps it’s time to make … a friend.”

The next day Lucina sidled up to Daisy at playtime before the boys had found her. “What do you want, Lucy?” the girl asked, frowning at the girl’s plain clothes, clearly far inferior to her city-bought dress.

“You were right, yesterday. About faeries,” Lucina answered.

“I know I’m right!” Daisy said, bristling.

“But I can prove it,” Lucina answerd, blue eyes sparkling. “There is a party this evening. In the grove. Come with me, and we’ll show the boys they really do turn you into pudding.” Daisy’s eyes went wide and she grinned, agreeing immediately. The rest of playtime, she played with Lucina in the dirt, shunning the boys.

That evening, Lucina led the girl to her grove, approaching the pond cautiously. Inside, her mother and sisters and aunts flew and flitted around the pond, whose trees were full of twinkling lights. Daisy gasped as a faerie flew by her face, wings flapping so fast it was hard to tell their color.

“There, see that table there?” Lucina whispered. “The one with the cakes? That’s glamour! Stay away from that one!”

“What about the fruit table?” Daisy whispered back, her eyes hungry. Lucina smiled.

“That one’s okay,” she answered. “Go, try some! Bring me some strawberries!” So the girls gorged themselves on berries and kiwis, until it seemed to Daisy it might be time to go home.

“Let’s go back, Lucina,” she said.

“You can’t,” Lucina answered.

“Why ever not?” Daisy asked, frowning.

Lucina carefully peeled off her sweater, revealing her great yellow and black wings. “Because you’ve eaten glamour. Except we don’t turn you into pudding. If you go outside those trees, you turn into dust. You’ll turn into dust and you’ll blow away.”

Daisy shrieked and ran away from Lucina, and as soon as she passed the trees, she dispersed into dust and flew away. And that is why Teynbourgh is so dusty, and the grove so green.

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Written by Nikayna in portal Fiction
Fairy Tail
“If you eat a faerie’s glamour, you become pudding and the faerie will slurp you all up,” Daisy said, hands on her hips. “Everyone knows that!” The boys looked up from digging a hole in the school yard, frowning at the girl with pink-ribboned pigtails.

“No one knows that, cause it ain’t true,” Jacob said, rubbing his cheek. “Are you gonna go find a better digging stick or what?”

“Isaac you’ve heard that story haven’t you?” she asked the other boy, crossing her arms.

“Sure I heard it,” he said, scraping dirt away from the sides of the hole to free a half-stuck earthworm. “Doesn’t mean I believe it.”

“Well it’s true,” she huffed, stalking away from them towards the oak tree. As she marched by the rosebushes, the girl sitting there by herself looked up from her book, but Daisy breezed past without a second glance.

She was used to being overlooked. Her mousy brown hair didn’t draw attention to her like Daisy’s fiery red hair. No one commented on her plain linen dresses, or complimented the white woolen sweaters she wore to conceal the swallowtail butterfly wings that grew out of her back. Only her bright blue eyes, an icy color like a cloudless sky at high noon, commanded any notice. It had been a source of amusement for the other kids at first, but after a week or two, their minds became fixated on other things, as kid’s minds are wont to do. It was in this way that a faerie girl could go to school with human children.

To get home, she at first walked along the roads of Teynbourgh, a dusty little farming town tucked away in the Western Prairie. Near the northern edge of town a dense grove of trees grew up out of nowhere, surrounding a small pond. Once inside the dense tree line, she peeled off the woolen sweater and shook out her wings, grateful to have them free once again. She happily bounced along the path, her wings propelling her nearly up to the tree canopy.

“How was school, Lucina?” her mother asked as she entered the small thatched house on the pond.

“A girl at school told stories about us, at playtime,” she answered. Her mother turned around, eyebrow raised. “She tried to convince two boys that we turn humans into pudding with our glamour and slurp them up.”

“Which girl?”

“Daisy.”

“Oh really,” her mother mused. The pink ribboned pigtailed girl had not been kind to her Lucina. “Well perhaps it’s time to make … a friend.”

The next day Lucina sidled up to Daisy at playtime before the boys had found her. “What do you want, Lucy?” the girl asked, frowning at the girl’s plain clothes, clearly far inferior to her city-bought dress.

“You were right, yesterday. About faeries,” Lucina answered.

“I know I’m right!” Daisy said, bristling.

“But I can prove it,” Lucina answerd, blue eyes sparkling. “There is a party this evening. In the grove. Come with me, and we’ll show the boys they really do turn you into pudding.” Daisy’s eyes went wide and she grinned, agreeing immediately. The rest of playtime, she played with Lucina in the dirt, shunning the boys.

That evening, Lucina led the girl to her grove, approaching the pond cautiously. Inside, her mother and sisters and aunts flew and flitted around the pond, whose trees were full of twinkling lights. Daisy gasped as a faerie flew by her face, wings flapping so fast it was hard to tell their color.

“There, see that table there?” Lucina whispered. “The one with the cakes? That’s glamour! Stay away from that one!”

“What about the fruit table?” Daisy whispered back, her eyes hungry. Lucina smiled.

“That one’s okay,” she answered. “Go, try some! Bring me some strawberries!” So the girls gorged themselves on berries and kiwis, until it seemed to Daisy it might be time to go home.

“Let’s go back, Lucina,” she said.

“You can’t,” Lucina answered.

“Why ever not?” Daisy asked, frowning.

Lucina carefully peeled off her sweater, revealing her great yellow and black wings. “Because you’ve eaten glamour. Except we don’t turn you into pudding. If you go outside those trees, you turn into dust. You’ll turn into dust and you’ll blow away.”

Daisy shrieked and ran away from Lucina, and as soon as she passed the trees, she dispersed into dust and flew away. And that is why Teynbourgh is so dusty, and the grove so green.
#fantasy  #microfiction  #fairy  #schoolyard 
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Written by Nikayna in portal Poetry & Free Verse

I Am A Poet - Destroyer Series (II)

II. Destroyer of Truth

I am a poet

observer of you

stowaway from me.

you have become my Muse

and my obsession.

your grace grips my pen,

makes me forget

my own inelegance.

I hunch over my table,

determined to paint you

three-dimensional.

I want to feel you.

the pen breaks,

vomits its ink,

sick of the labor I force upon it.

finally finished

it sings of you

but stinks of me.

I wonder if you could find me,

crawling beneath your skin.

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Written by Nikayna in portal Poetry & Free Verse
I Am A Poet - Destroyer Series (II)
II. Destroyer of Truth

I am a poet
observer of you
stowaway from me.

you have become my Muse
and my obsession.

your grace grips my pen,
makes me forget
my own inelegance.

I hunch over my table,
determined to paint you
three-dimensional.

I want to feel you.

the pen breaks,
vomits its ink,
sick of the labor I force upon it.

finally finished
it sings of you
but stinks of me.

I wonder if you could find me,
crawling beneath your skin.
#poetry  #poem  #obsession  #muses 
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Written by Nikayna in portal Poetry & Free Verse

I Am A Poet - Destroyer Series

I. Destroyer of Language

I am a poet

miner of words

blacksmith of sound.

tired eyes seek letter ores,

strain to pick them out

among the rocks and dirt.

filthy fingers sift

through the earth, gathering

for the fires in my forge.

I stumble home, imagining

what uses each metal has

for me. for the world.

I pound them into harmony.

I shape them, sharpen them, shine them.

I make them brilliant, mine.

will anyone understand them,

when I'm done?

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Written by Nikayna in portal Poetry & Free Verse
I Am A Poet - Destroyer Series
I. Destroyer of Language

I am a poet
miner of words
blacksmith of sound.

tired eyes seek letter ores,
strain to pick them out
among the rocks and dirt.

filthy fingers sift
through the earth, gathering
for the fires in my forge.

I stumble home, imagining
what uses each metal has
for me. for the world.

I pound them into harmony.
I shape them, sharpen them, shine them.
I make them brilliant, mine.

will anyone understand them,
when I'm done?
#poetry  #poem  #language  #selfreflection  #torturedartist 
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