Shop Mobile More Submit  Join Login
About Deviant Premium Member TheTerrorOfTheDeepUnited States Recent Activity
Deviant for 6 Years
5 Month Premium Membership
Statistics 68 Deviations 11,075 Comments 25,373 Pageviews

Perfect and Mighty

Levee LandThe thing about living in Louisiana is that you no longer see beauty in the cypress, the slow muck of water, the brilliant blue of the sky.  You see that the trees are new growth and skinny, tall and ready to topple.  You see the refrigerators abandoned on the banks and you know that the only reason the sky is so blue is because of all the vapor in the atmosphere and you curse the humidity.
I allow the scenery to blur, the truck ka-thunking over the expansions on the Three Mile Bridge while I sip water from a plastic Mardi Gras cup that was marked in sharpie “In Memory of Lana,” the black strokes scratched from washings. 
She had died on this bridge.  She was kidnapped from the local bar by her angry ex-boyfriend and he bashed her head on the concrete pilings and tipped her over the side.  It was a strange way to dispose of the body, actually.  There was no water below, just a long drop to dry land and weekend camps.  Then the boyfr
A Little Bit RuinedIt’s long past midnight by the time I make it back to my apartment.  The nearby streetlight burned out long ago, and I attempt to open the door with my car key several times before realizing my mistake.   I’m not sure how I make that mistake, actually—I have three keys on my key ring, one for the’92 sun faded blue Corrolla, one for the Post Office box that I never check, and one for my apartment.  I’ve always envied people who have heavy key rings, the way the metal clicks together in their pockets and jangles when they pulled them out.  Having that many keys, I figure, means that you had important things to do, important places to go, places where you would always be safe.
I finally fidget my way in and leave a trail behind myself—shoes, bag, coat, keys—then collapse onto the couch.  It fails to yield to my attempt to sink into it, my body bouncing against the hard cushions.  After a few moments with my hand

this is about forgettingThis is the thing about forgetting:
                For weeks you bury your face in the clothes you wore when he was near and the smell is a comfort and a torture.  You decide that the torture is not worth the comfort so you leave them draped across the back of a chair and place things on top of them to stop yourself until one day you shove your hands through the pile until your fingers wrap around the fabric and you yank it free only to realize it was pointless.  Even his ghost is gone.
                The next thing that leaves is the way his voice looked in the dark.  Those few sentences become blurred and rough around the edges.  What you remember drops in your stomach in a different way. 
                You run your fingers over your
Words I Wish ExistedIn French, they don't say "I miss you."  They say, tu me manques, which translates roughly to "you are missing from me."  That seems right.  This seems far more true.  Because missing something is far different than having something missing from you.  When something is missing from you it means that it is a part of you that makes you tick.  I've always had trouble with the English language, there are so many words that should exist.  There should be a word for when you love someone but you hate them at the same time, when you can't get them out of your system and so you suffer constantly through small talk because if their words are all you can have, you will take them.  Maybe something in German, the German language sounds like suffering.  There should be a word for when you think about someone constantly because you are trying so hard not to think of them, because the active desire to unthink someone makes you think of them more.
for all intensive purposesi am accused of being
a category five--
    but i will not excuse the way my skin aches.  
i want storms.
    i remember the way Katrina screamed &
    if you press your ear to my chest you will hear the same.  
the moan turning into a pitch, the pitch
screaming until the throat is too raw to be
more than a whimper.  
the way it stops
and pauses,
silently racked until it bursts forth once more.  
i will not apologize for being demolition.  
scars exist on every woman
too powerful to contain herself. 
LW: (title page - epigraph)"Camus said that the only true function of man, born into an absurd world, is to live, be aware of one's life, one's revolt, one's freedom.  He said that if the only solution to the human dilemma is death, then we are on the wrong road.  The right track is the one that leads to life, to sunlight.  One cannot unceasingly suffer from the cold. […]  The track he followed led into the sunlight in being that one devoted to making with our frail powers and our absurd material,  something which had not existed in life until we made it."- William Faulkner
"Betrayals, even your own, can surprise you.  They can make you do things."-Lorrie Moore

Foolish and Cute

The Library“This has always been my favorite room.”  Greyson's heavy boots echoed as he circled around the room.  Aside from his footfalls, the rest of the extravagant home was silent.  He gingerly hooked his finger into the bindings on the old books that were so carefully placed on the ancient bookcases, caressing the spine on each one.  “Even as a young child, I loved this room.  Uncle Damascus would tell Lydia and I the most adventurous stories in here.  Father told us not to listen to his tall tales and that Damascus wasn't his real name, but it's the only one we ever had for him.  I'm not even sure how he got the nickname.”
His eyes flickered around the room.  The dark wood paneling and floor to ceiling bookcases weren't the only attraction.  The second floor of the library had ornate stained-glass windows.  Each depicting a different vision.  Uncle Damascus once told Greyson that each Master of the house designed
Breakup SpeechIt's not you, it's me. I know it's the oldest excuse in the book, but hey, when it works, it works. Did you really see this lasting longer than a couple months? When does anything last longer than a couple months with me? I hope we can still be friends.
 
Yeah, 'cause everyone wants to be friends with the ex-lover. Like it ever works.
You know me. You know the type of person that I am. I've never been able to settle down. My heart wanders like a nomad. It seeks shelter where it's offered but only stays long enough to get warm. Attachment isn't an option for me. My mind is too warped. It's too dark to ever let someone in. Truly let someone in.
No, fuck! That's all wrong. It's too personal.  Too emotional.  Let me try again.
I don't want to do this, but I'm only going to hurt you if I don't.  And that's the last thing I want to do. So I'm ending this before it goes too far. I completely understand if you never want to talk to me again.


That w

Bee's Pre-SmutHis hand warmed her skin as he gently stroked the soft skin on the inside of her thigh.  Her body tingled when his fingers danced across the material of her panties.  She wiggled her bottom to reveal a bit more flesh.  She watched his eyes flash down at her movement.  The smirk was all the approval she needed.  
Not wanting to draw more attention to what they were doing, he placed his palm flat against the top of her thigh while catching her eyes.  His line of vision darted around the crowded subway car and she realized what he was implying.  They needed to be more careful or they'd have voyeurs for sure.
Leaning into his face, she whispered, "I'm cold."  He smirked.  Of course she wasn't cold.  
After removing his coat, he draped it over her legs and his hands returned to the soft flesh of her thigh.
She had to keep herself from moaning at the feel of his hand on her skin again.  She wanted them in her bedroom already, but they we
Behind Blue EyesShe lay on her bed, unable to even get out of it and walk around her own home.  Having had visitors most of the day, she was grateful for the peace and quiet her empty room gave her.
Looking across the room to the long mirror on the back of her bedroom door, she saw her brilliant blue eyes sparkling back.  Not a day went by that she didn't look in that mirror and see those soft eyes returning her gaze.  Not since she bought that mirror all those years ago.
As she looked at her reflection, she wondered if her eyes had always been that shade of blue.  The night she was born, when she opened her eyes for the first time and looked at her mother, were they a crystalline blue?
She couldn't remember.  She couldn't remember many things these days.  Old age had taken its toll not only on her body but on her mind as well.  She was unable to remember many things, but the few memories she had were truly cherished.
As a young gir

edgea bundle of nerves and feelings
a complicated mess you can't help
but want to fix and make beautiful again
heartache surrounds her unfairly
circles her mind and claims her soul
she deserves special attention
a strong spirit, unparalleled
unmatched in beauty or ink
if she only knew how wonderful she is.
You're Beautiful, But I'll Make BreakfastAlice swayed her body to the side and slithered off Paddy, pulling the sheet along with her.  He watched her head fall back onto the pillow next to him.  Her twisted brown hair covering her face slightly.  Rolling onto his side, Paddy's hand swept the hair from her face.  He let the backs of his fingers brush against her cheek while his other hand gripped her waist and yanked her body closer to his own.  “You're beautiful.”  His voice was barely a whisper with just a hint of an Irish accent.  Everyone in his family had it.  They teased that it was the  only thing they had left from the old country. 
Her nose crinkled and she closed her eyes.  “What?”  He knew she hated hearing how beautiful she was, but he couldn't help telling her.  She was the most gorgeous thing he'd ever set eyes on and he felt the need to tell her that on regular basis.  It was normal to tell someone they were beautiful w

Webcam

Devious Journal Entry

Journal Entry: Wed Jul 30, 2014, 9:02 AM


I hate two kinds of people:

Cops and poets.

Fuck them.

deviantID

TheTerrorOfTheDeep's Profile Picture
TheTerrorOfTheDeep
United States
Hi. I am easily excited.

I only understand three languages: English, Waggle Dance, and Fear.
Interests
75%
3 deviants said GrimFace242 is a trend setter.
25%
1 deviant said I'm bored.

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconmyinqi:
myINQI Featured By Owner Aug 30, 2014  Hobbyist Photographer
:iconbedanker: on Knoblauchsland by myINQI :hug:
Reply
:icontheterrorofthedeep:
TheTerrorOfTheDeep Featured By Owner Sep 6, 2014
where are you getting the money for that?
Reply
:iconthestoragegnome:
TheStorageGnome Featured By Owner Sep 6, 2014
FROM YOU. GIVE IT TO ME NOW OR I'LL ROB THE MUSEUM.
Reply
:icontheterrorofthedeep:
TheTerrorOfTheDeep Featured By Owner Sep 10, 2014
GO ON. DO IT.
Reply
:iconthestoragegnome:
TheStorageGnome Featured By Owner Aug 25, 2014
Kept your toothbrush. Gonna take a DNA sample and make a clone out of it.
Reply
:icontheterrorofthedeep:
TheTerrorOfTheDeep Featured By Owner Sep 6, 2014
I will kill my clone to assert my dominance.
Reply
:iconthestoragegnome:
TheStorageGnome Featured By Owner Aug 25, 2014
Did you make it home okay? Come talk to meeee. I'm bored and lonely and needy. Work sucks.
Reply
:icontheterrorofthedeep:
TheTerrorOfTheDeep Featured By Owner Sep 6, 2014
No. PArt of my is stuck in the sky. Now I am bored and lonely. You come talk to meeeee.
Reply
:iconthestoragegnome:
TheStorageGnome Featured By Owner Sep 6, 2014
That's alarming. :[
Reply
Add a Comment: