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About Literature / Artist Premium Member tegan.20/Female/United States Group :iconminimalit: minimalit
Every word matters.
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"aprilwednesday's deep, emotional writing will take readers down a road of memories; she makes her beautiful words seem so personal to readers, they'll believe that she's going through the same things that weigh heavily on them. With her infectious enthusiasm and kind heart, aprilwednesday's gallery is one you'll want to watch!"
-TwilightPoetess

 



"Like her name, aprilwednesday's work is charming and delightful. Even when it's sad, it's like one of those cute little rain clouds with an unhappy face. This is the sort of writing you find on faded letters in a forgotten attic on top of somebody's old wedding dress."
-SilverInkblot

 



"She's one of those writers, you know, that has such high-quality work that it's almost impossible to stop reading. Her writing is breathtaking and the variation in syntax and theme makes every piece exhilarating."
-jonathoncomfortreed

 

a good place to start [DLDs/DDs]

a ribcage drenched in dusti have your ribcage, you said.
what should i put in it?
i told you i'd always wanted a fire,
the kind that would fill my eyes with starlight
and pump my blood full of passion, but
you're made of wildflowers, you said.
a fire would burn you to ash.
you wanted to fill my chest with
the sound of a train, whistling
far away in the night;
with the sound of rain smacking leaves;
with the sound the wind makes
when it seems like it's trying to speak
and you wanted to throw in the
smell of midnight in august
and the feeling of sand being
sucked out from under your feet
when the ocean inhales,
and the strange little moment of
bittersweet joy you get when
someone else puts your soul into words
and you realize you're not as alone as you thought.
i told you that if i had all that inside me,
i'd ache all the time
and you smiled a sad little smile,
because you already knew that ache.
because you were a writer, and you ached all the time.
i've got it, i said.
tell
anemic, broken, and growing up anywaywhen my sister was five, she dictated a letter to me in her strong little voice
while dust drifted in the sunshine
of our creaky old room.
dear me [she said],
barney is the best. i will wear blue all the time even though i'm a girl. my heart beats without me telling it to and that's pretty cool. i think people always feel better if you tell them you love them. i will always smile because i have dimples when i smile.
love,
me.
"did you write it?" she asked, and i told her i did, every word
with the chunky yellow pencil i'd fished out of my school bag.
i handed her the letter, and she folded it up carefully
and she smiled.
when my sister was fifteen, she was a little bit broken
anemic and pale, with unsure hair and shaky hands.
when i came home to visit she whispered to me that
she didn't understand
and when i asked her what she didn't understand, she said
"everything."
she wrote another letter that night.
dear me [it said],
this isn't a suicide note. this isn't another angsty poem. this


wanderlustshe was a  s e v e n t e e n  year old girl from nowhere [or was it everywhere?] with dark hair and long eyelashes and skin that was always pale white. when she was young she played in the poppy fields of greece and when she got older her tongue started yearning to speak italian and russian so that she could travel to other far off places.
she was born on a friday between two ice storms, and the first word she ever heard was  b e a u t y. her mama told her that when she first opened her dark blue eyes, her pupil was surrounded by a ring of pure white. the blue stayed but the white turned to green [and from then on her eyes were always her favorite feature].
she always had nightmares, never good dreams, but maybe that's because she could never stop  d r e a m i n g  with her eyes open.  all she ever wanted was dirt roads and stars and mud under her fingernails.
[maybe one day, when she's older, she'll take a crinkly old map and
stuck like glueit started with lightbulbs, and it ended with jail.
and when she looked back on it it seemed suitable, like the lightbulb he dropped on her desk was the universe's way of saying that this [whatever this was] was a great idea.
but it wasn't just lightbulbs. every day there was something new, a perfectly random little something dropped on her desk without a word of acknowledgment, like a cat bringing home dead things as gifts [but much cuter, of course] and every day she would tap her fingers with anticipation, just waiting for him to arrive with something new.
and they were always silent in class, barely speaking more than a few words to each other [maybe because he always slept right through the lesson]. but late at night they would spend hour upon hour talking to each other, and she would struggle to keep her eyes open so that she wouldn't have to say goodnight, because she knew, after not very long at all, that he was special.
and for months they were like that - best friends, talkin


butterflieshe thought he was in love with her on a bright september day when the leaves were as red as her hair; every time he looked at them his heart stuttered, and his mouth followed suit.
he was sure he was in love with her the first time he went to her house. she showed him her impressive collection of comic books. then she showed him her even more impressive collection of vintage records. then she smiled, and he forgot how to breathe.
he was almost positive he was in love with her the first time they kissed. her eyes were the color of spring and her lips tasted like sunshine and she giggled when their noses squished against each other.
he wondered whether he was really in love with her the night he proposed. she had laughed and cried and now she was snoring next to him, and he was trying to count the freckles on her nose. when he looked at the ring on her finger his heart started racing.
he knew he wasn't in love with her the day he said 'i do'. she looked too beautiful to be human, and he
held the moon in my hands"It's your birthday tomorrow," you said.
"I know that," I mumbled, too sleepy to wonder why you were pointing out such an obvious fact.
"Are you still refusing to let me buy you a present?"
"I don't want anything."
"You must want something."
"Just you."
"You have me."
"Exactly." I pulled the covers over my head to encourage you to shut up, but you pulled them back down.
"Why can't I get you something? Everyone else gets to."
"Give me the covers back."
"Answer my question."
"You suck. I'm cold."
"Then answer quickly."
I snuggled into your arms and sighed. "You've already given me more than I could have ever imagined possible."
"Have I ever mentioned how cheesy you get when you're tired?"
"Shut up."
"It's adorable."
"Hmph. AS I WAS SAYING..."
"...Yes?"
"Um. What was I saying?"
"You were sa--"
"Oh, right. A birthday present seems petty and pointless compared to what you've already given me."
"It doesn't have to be," you replied, your fingers twisting absently in my hair. "I'll give you so


colors of a sunflower - collabHer name was Sunflower, but it didn't suit her; she had black hair and blacker eyes and ink-stained fingers. Everything about her was dark and shadowy. Sometimes she found herself envying anything with color - when she looked at the other girls with their sunlit smiles and strawberry lips, she started to ache.
His name was Kirk and it didn't matter that it didn't suit him because everyone knew him as Hamster. He spent his mornings peeling the sleep from his eyes; his afternoons were dedicated to deciphering the codes of a cheerleader's walk. He used to beg strangers to read his fortune in the dimples of his cheeks; his favorite line used to be, "So...can you see yourself with me in the near future? Please say that you do." Usually, he'd leave them breathless with his name on their minds and their numbers in his pocket. But her. He couldn't even get her to blink. She became his obsession. His Iwantsomethingmore tune.
She frowned at him from the bench she was sitting on. He'd been hittin
Colors of a Sunflower--C.Her name was Sunflower, but it didn't suit her; she had black hair and blacker eyes and ink-stained fingers. Everything about her was dark and shadowy. Sometimes she found herself envying anything with color - when she looked at the other girls with their sunlit smiles and strawberry lips, she started to ache.
His name was Kirk and it didn't matter that it didn't suit him because everyone knew him as Hamster. He spent his mornings peeling the sleep from his eyes; his afternoons were dedicated to deciphering the codes of a cheerleader's walk. He used to beg strangers to read his fortune in the dimples of his cheeks; his favorite line used to be, "So...can you see yourself with me in the near future? Please say that you do." Usually, he'd leave them breathless with his name on their minds and their numbers in his pocket. But her. He couldn't even get her to blink. She became his obsession. His Iwantsomethingmore tune.
She frowned at him from the bench she was sitting on. He


h o p e.She asked him about time, her wide sea-green eyes and twisty child's tongue forming questions that philosophers had been wrestling with since she was nothing but–
there's her first question.
"What was I before I was born?"
"You were a wish," he smiled, crouching down so that their noses almost touched.
"A wish?"
"Yep. A wish, a hope, a desire; you were stardust, floating around in the milky way, just waiting for someone to wish hard enough."
"Oh." Her eyebrows crinkled together as she thought about this. "So my mom and dad wished for me?"
"Exactly." He stood up.
"Wait!"
He waited, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows. "Yes?"
"Well…" she chewed her lip, trying to think of the right words. "What's yesterday?"
"Yesterday? Yesterday you followed me and Mouse to Starbucks and no one knew you left and I didn't know you were with me and there was a big huge hullabaloo, remember?" He poked her nose and she giggled.
"I know that," she said, rolling her eyes. "But w
a lie that tells the truthplease don’t write me as a ghost girl,
all blurry lines and faded features
that caricature themselves into the minds
of those that think they see me--
i am not a canvas.
my life is not a blank sheet for you
to paint your vision across,
and i have no wires in my bones--
you cannot pose me so i’ll catch the light
just so,
like a kaleidoscope of clever quirks
and tragic backstories;
i am written in the words i discard
when i write bad poetry at 3am, and if you look,
you can find me echoed back to you
in my all time top five favorite movies.
i am the way my hands hurt
when i get nervous;
i am the urge to speak italian,
even though after a year of classes, i can barely
say hello;
i am the calmness that hits
when i smell cigarettes, even though
i’ve never smoked,
and i am the grudges that have lingered
because i forget to let things go,
and i am the passive-aggressive comments
that i should be sorry for, but
never really am.
if you want, you can trace your pen along
the cre


the boy with twelve bracletsthe cobwebs of your past cling
to the inside of your ribcage
and gently strangle your heart.
when i saw you for the first time
i had already known you for weeks,
taken part in your gorgeous
conversations and watched you spread
laughter like a perfect virus
among all the people you met.
you wore twelve bracelets,
six on each wrist;
once upon a time they served
to cover a mistake you made
when you were thirteen,
but it wasn’t a mistake now
so much as a story
about a boy who was brave enough to keep breathing,
and you kept the bracelets just because their memory annoyed you
when you took them off.
that was what you said, anyway.
then i learned how sure you were
that you were only pretending
to be brave.
you wore a mirror as a face,
silver and starlike,
molded to your features and well-rehearsed
in reflecting just what you
knew people wanted to see
and one night,
terrified of seeing nothing but myself
in you
[and greedy to see your face]
i smashed the mirror.
i expected you to scramb

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aprilwednesday
tegan.
Artist | Literature
United States
starry eyed twenty year old with a penchant for telling stories. six feet tall. idiosyncratic. wanderlustful. studies film at a tiny, haunted college on a lake in the middle of nowhere. suffers from a vague obsession with ezra miller. in love with fairytales and folklore and anything ghostly. likes it when the moon is so thin that it looks as though the breeze could shatter it into a thousand pieces. likes red lipstick. likes mix tapes. always happy to collaborate, critique, comment, or just talk. talking is nice. feel free to say hi.

:iconmv1plz::iconmv2plz::iconmv3plz::iconmv4plz::iconmv5plz::iconmv6plz::iconmv7plz:

"My cousin Helen, who is in her 90s now, was in the Warsaw ghetto during World War II. She and a bunch of the girls in the ghetto had to do sewing each day. And if you were found with a book, it was an automatic death penalty. She had gotten hold of a copy of ‘Gone With the Wind’, and she would take three or four hours out of her sleeping time each night to read. And then, during the hour or so when they were sewing the next day, she would tell them all the story. These girls were risking certain death for a story. And when she told me that story herself, it actually made what I do feel more important. Because giving people stories is not a luxury. It’s actually one of the things that you live and die for."
Neil Gaiman
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If I were to self-publish a book of short stories and poetry (including new ones that have never been posted online) would you buy it? 

46%
29 deviants said Yes
33%
21 deviants said I'd consider it
17%
11 deviants said I don't know if I'd buy it, but I think it's a good idea
3%
2 deviants said No
0%
No deviants said Yes, but only if -- (comment)

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:iconalwaysraincheck:
AlwaysRainCheck Featured By Owner May 23, 2014  Student General Artist
Thank you so very much for the fav! Heart 
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:iconaprilwednesday:
aprilwednesday Featured By Owner May 26, 2014   Writer
you're welcome! it was beautiful, i can't believe english isn't your native language! i've studied italian for a while and i lived there for 4 months, and i can't imagine ever being skilled enough to write such flawless poetry in it. you're so talented!

thank you so much for the watch :heart:
 
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:iconalwaysraincheck:
AlwaysRainCheck Featured By Owner May 27, 2014  Student General Artist
Thank you so much, I think you've just made my day with your kind words :heart: During a very dark period of my life English poetry has been my drug, I spent innumerable sleepless nights reading and reading and absorbing words...half of my heart fell in love with your beautiful language.
If you don't mind me asking, which part of Italy have you visited?


thank you so much as well :heart: 
Reply
:iconaprilwednesday:
aprilwednesday Featured By Owner May 28, 2014   Writer
you're welcome :heart:

i studied at Lorenzo de' Medici in Florence, with some trips to Venice, Sienna, and the Verrazzano Castle. mostly tourist places, but i still loved it. i see that you're from italy - could you recommend any italian poetry? i would love to delve more into italian literature!
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(1 Reply)
:iconirrevocablefate:
IrrevocableFate Featured By Owner Feb 9, 2014   Writer
:hug: Thank you.
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:iconaprilwednesday:
aprilwednesday Featured By Owner Feb 11, 2014   Writer
you're welcome :tighthug:
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:iconirrevocablefate:
IrrevocableFate Featured By Owner Feb 12, 2014   Writer
:huggle: <3
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:iconsammur-amat:
Sammur-amat Featured By Owner Jan 28, 2014   General Artist
happy birthday! :iconlachoirplz:
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:iconaprilwednesday:
aprilwednesday Featured By Owner Jan 29, 2014   Writer
thank you!! :tighthug:
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:iconstarry-eyed-writer:
Starry-Eyed-Writer Featured By Owner Jan 28, 2014  Student Writer
Happy birthday :)
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