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Welcome to xWritersUtopiax!

Welcome to xWritersUtopiax! :la: Kick off your shoes and party as hard as your heart desires, but don't forget to read the rules first.

:megaphone: Respect. No thrashing, harassing, or tormenting of any kind will be permitted in this group. This a place of peace, not dArama, so keep any mean thoughts to your self. This isn't limited to the group, either. If you're a member and I see that you are harassing someone outside of xWUx, action will still be taken.

:megaphone: Submissions. Each member is allowed to submit 5 deviations weekly in the folder of their choice.

~Other submission guidelines:
--Please submit your work into the right folder. There are several folders such as; Poetry, Prose, Fan Fiction, Short Stories, Novels, etc; and I will add more if needed. Just say the magic words and it will happen!
--When it comes to submitting fan fictions: State copyright to whoever the characters belong to in your Artist's Comments.

:megaphone: And probably one of the easiest rules a group could possibly have...have fun! :la:

:star: Submitting to Favorites: You are allowed to submit 10 daily, but it cannot be your own work!


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FAQ #12: deviantART doesn't allow 'Hate Art', 'Hate Speech' or 'Hate Propaganda', what is this?

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:faq196:

FAQ #199: How do I add Mature Content tag to my deviation?

FAQ #560: How do I add a Literature Author tag to appear with my literature deviations? How can I remove this tag later?

:faq627:

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Our main focus is for this group to be a literal writer's utopia, in a sense that it's the perfect community for authors of all kinds to share their work! <3
Group
Founded 4 Years ago
Mar 26, 2010

Location
Global

Group Focus
Literature

1,463 Members
1,276 Watchers
30,264 Pageviews
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Featured Affiliates for 4:19-4:26
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Featuring the winners of the tournament held at our affiliate, :iconwriters--club:!

:spotlight-left: First Place :spotlight-right:
Sapphire-X-Dreams
ShrapnelI.
I didn't speak again today. And no one took notice. They never do.
It was the first page of a new chapter– the first day of the school year. I sat in the back of the classroom, twiddling my fingers, keeping my eyes low.
My actions passed everyone's eyes. No one said hello. I must have looked unwelcoming, but it's not that I wanted it to be that way. I just didn't know what to say or how to say it. My voice refused to come out. It stayed hidden, tucked away, as it always is.
Mother comes to pick me up at 4:30. She peeks up at me through a frostbitten rear-view mirror with her smiling eyes. She asks how my day was and I tell her I couldn't do it. I couldn't break away. I couldn't speak to anyone.
Her laugh comes out in ribbons. "Someday you'll get over it. You'll do it someday. We're all human. We all get nervous sometimes."
But it's been like this for years. I'm more than just nervous. I'm more than just shy. Something in my soul is repressed. Maybe it's the stares of th
Shrapnel IIII.
The wisterias have eyes. They're blessed, I think, because they get a full view of the boy that sits by the window.
He sits by the open window. He's the boy with eyes like the Sahara and hair ink-black and wavy like raven feathers. Wisteria petals kiss his desk, but he brushes their love away with a tired hand. When the teacher isn't looking, he'll rest his head. When he's fighting to stay awake during lessons, his long eyelashes take flight and roost, take flight and roost, open and close, open and close, like ravens.
They call him Little Italy or Peretti, which is his last name. I don't know how they know it since he only scrawls his first name on all his worksheets. Ettore. In slumbering letters, Ettore. It's the Italian version of Hector, meaning loyal.
We know he knows English judging from his essays and diagramed sentences, but he only speaks Italian. He separates himself with Italian.
But somehow I was allowed behind the barrier.
He joined the class thre
Shrapnel IIIIII.
My milkshake is chocolate, anxious and cold. Ettore has cherry, somber and disoriented. There's also something else between us, it's called patience but it isn't very strong. We're both traipsing a thin thread. Who will speak first, him or me?  
Things got very awkward on the playground. I couldn't get myself to thank him for talking to me. He didn't know what to do. But now we're here.  
Who will speak first, him or me?
Neither of us, as fate would have it. Ettore's little brother with the corduroy overalls and the white-white bandages over his chest leans over the table to look me in the eyes. His eyes are brown like Ettore's. "Are you my brother's friend? He left all his friends in Italy. Lucia and Adriano and Elettra. You look a lot like Elettra. She was Ettore's favorite. Wasn't she, Ettore?" He grins at his brother, then sips from his glass a strawberry milkshake, peppy and unsuspecting.  
Ettore eyes him, shaking his head. "Lei non é il mio fav


:spotlight-left: Second Place :spotlight-right:
kidko123
Prisoner of Love and WarHe had always been captivated by her,
the way her hair would never behave,
the way snow would constantly accumulate
on the crown of her head,
the way her shoes would be soaked,
through and through,
after stepping in a puddle with cheer;
and most of all,
the way she never cared.
She had never really thought of him or noticed him much,
just a friend of an acquaintance,
as far as she knew,
but this friend of a friend
would much rather meet a fiery end
than be separated for too long
from you.
He worked to the bone for months on end,
while the days whittled away into years,
trying so desperately to catch her eye and,
if luck loved him, her heart,
that he would never show sign of weakness;
no sweat,
no tears.
She never caught sight
of his ongoing plight
or maybe just never truly bothered to look;
as she went about her day
she didn't know how much he prayed
for every single touch, brush, gaze,
that his imprisoned heart could possibly take.
He soon understood
that he had fallen from grace,
fal
And So We Walk OnHe walked through the little trail,
a frail old man,
the dirt road lined with bare,
barren beech trees on either side,
their leaves fallen and frozen
in the frigid frost of Winter.
But in his thoughts
he reminisced of times passed,
of the 77 winters he had already seen,
and decided that he would rather spend
what little time he had left
in the archives of his memory,
in the days of his youth,
in Spring.
So there he was,
on the trail,
78 years old,
yet, at the same time,
a little 12 year old boy,
gleaming eyes full with curiosity,
was standing exactly where the geriatric was
only, this little boy was flanked on either side
by blooming and blossoming shades of green.
He ran from side to side,
picking up flowers and leaves,
sticks and branches,
and anything that caught his short attention span.
Bundling them in his arms,
he ran to his house
as quickly as two little feet could carry him,
eager to display his findings to his mother,
for his father
never had the time for him.
Now that little
Heaven's Out Of ReachDance puppet,
dance,
move to the will
of your master.
Jump marionette,
jump,
jump until
you inevitably drop.
Despair slave,
despair,
because this existence
is all you'll ever know.
Hide from the whip,
flinch from the cane,
all this suffering;
enough to drive you
insane.
Bend to the whims
of your aggressor,
as there's nothing else
you can do.
Because with the Devil
riding on your back,
Heaven's out of reach,
for you.


:spotlight-left: Third Place :spotlight-right:
GrimFace242
Last WordThe little girl couldn't have been more than six years old when she ran through the old dusty house.  It was no longer a home.  It's owner deemed incompetent and placed with a relative.  Following her mother, the little girl looked around at all the boxes and furniture.  Where was it all going to go?  Surely there wasn't enough room to move it all to their home.  "Momma, where will all of Auntie's things go now?"
A soft smile and caressing hand reached out to stroke the little girl's round face.  "I told you.  We'll take some and grandma will take some, Anna."
"All of it?" 
"No."  The sadness was evident in her voice, but the child didn't understand the strain it held.  For this wasn't just Auntie's belongings that needed to be packed, but Momma's memories.  Memories of summers spent running through the house while being chased by Unca.  Memories of card games at the dining table.  Horrible stories her brother made u
Turn of EventsLeaping off the back of the green suede armchair that she hated, Nina finally got her hands around the offending bird she'd been chasing around the house for the last hour.  "I swear," she shook a finger at the yellow bird after getting it firmly in the grasp of her right hand, "when you die, I'll kill him if he gets another one of you!"  Walking into the kitchen, she quickly tossed the bird into its brass cage and locked the door.  She added a glare over her shoulder as she left the room for good measure.
"Mooooooom!  Hurry up!  I need your help with my hair and Spence will be here in less than a half hour!"
Nina shook her head as she took the stairs in twos to get to her complaining teenager upstairs.  "Do you think I wanted to chase that damn bird around the house for the last half hour?  I think your uncle has it trained to escape its cage."
"Uncle Scott doesn't have Princess Peninsula trained.  He says she just needs som
Family DinnerAs Spencer parked the car out front of her mom and uncle's home, Anna could hear them arguing inside.  It was probably about another bird that her uncle brought home, but she never knew with those two.  
“You ready?”  Spencer asked, breaking Anna out of her thoughts.
“Huh?  Yea, of course.  Let's go in.”  She reached to the backseat and grabbed the macaroni and cheese she'd baked earlier while Spencer got out and jogged around the car to open her door.
“Here. I'll take that.”  He quickly handled the casserole dish in one hand while offering his other to help her from the car.  
They walked side by side up to the house.  The voices of her mom and uncle getting louder the closer they got to the house.  Anna could barely make out their words, but it certainly wasn't about a new bird her uncle purchased.
Even though the house was her childhood home and she still in a way considered it home, Anna raised he


:spotlight-left: Honorable Mention :spotlight-right:
wispofcloud
A Caged LegacyAll that Eliza would truly remember about that evening was the sound of the wind howling. It was loud and persistent, but did not frighten her as it might have frightened most eight year old girls.
“You hear that wind, Eliza?” her father had said to her once. “That is the sound of the spirits in search of a new home. They mean you no harm and you need not be afraid of them.”
That night she thought that the spirits sounded forlorn and weary, as if they had been traveling long and far and were making one desperate, last ditch effort before abandoning hope and spiraling off into nothingness. But above their anguished cries, she could still hear her father in his workroom down the hall.
She did not know what he was making, but all day he had worked with a fervor that matched the winds. There was an anxiety hidden beneath his calm demeanor which he tried to hide but she still noticed, mainly because she had never seen it before. All morning he had worked the forges,
Once Upon A Starry CavernWe were only kids the first time we discovered the room of stars.
There was nothing seemingly special about that morning. It was the same cave we always visited; all the neighborhood children knew about it. The one tucked away between two hillsides on the far end of Mr. Laramy's crop field, it's entrance hidden by the hanging willow branches of the same tree that marked it's location.
It was a bright spring morning when Jason and I chased each other around the edges of the field and arrived at the willow tree in a matter of minutes. Normally we would play some children's games such as Find the Fox or Maiden's Mother first, but Jason said he had a surprise for me today.
“Look!” he exclaimed, pulling a little silver stick with an attached keyring out of his pocket.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It's a torch.”
“No it's not, it's too little!”
“It may be small, but it sure is bright!” And with that explanation, he twisted the end of it t
Writing Like the DevilHello?
A knock on the door.                        
Oh! Hello! You're here. I, um, was just stopping by to say that I, um...
Yes! Yes, of course, I should come in, shouldn't I. I guess, oh, sorry about that, I'll sit here. This is alright? Good. Thank you.
So, um, lovely office. Just lovely. Oh! Look at those succulents. I tried to grow succulents once, but they died. Don't ask me how, I didn't even know succulents could die, I never had much of a green thumb so I guess I just forgot to water them or something or perhaps just not enough sun-
Why am I here?
I suppose that is a valid question, I guess I wouldn't have come all this way to talk about your plants.
An awkward chuckle.                        
You see, I'm here because, well not really because of an issue, but more like an... observation has come to


:spotlight-left: Honorable Mention :spotlight-right:
HeadmistressMercedes
Sky for a SwingShe sits up, so high.
Back and forth, back and forth,
Above the crowds below.
In awe, they stand, and whisper her secrets
through the sandstorms that swirl over mountain and mire.
She has the cosmos at her fingertips, they say,
and the solar system for a swing.
What a glorious way to be free!
The sky as a swing for eternity!
But the eyes, gazing upward, cannot see.
The bars will forever chain this bird to her perch,
and the cage will always keep the moon and stars
from tangling in her hair.
The Tomb The Woman MadeAs the outer walls crumble and shatter to dust,
and debris coats the floor, hardening to a crust,
They enter, their purpose profound and robust:
Find she who lurks in the dark, they must.
Their footsteps calling bloody red,
They've come to take The Woman's head.
The fray outside is a ceaseless war.
The batt'ring ram splintering the front door.
They call out the she-devil, monster, and whore,
Before they even know who they're searching for.
As the night drags on and the fires burn red,
The rabble screams for The Woman's head.
The battlements breached, they creep inside,
Shadows an ideal place to hide.
To find out where this demon resides,
They enter the halls, where they think she abides.
As torches cast shadows of flickering red,
They dream of taking The Woman's head.
'Midst the fallen stone, they scurry around,
To the hell-beast's death, they are all bound.
And in an inner passage, where there is no sound,
At the end of the hallway, the devil is found.
With their veins flowing thick w
Discourse with the DevilI offered Satan a piggy-back ride today. So up he hopped, and away we went for a walk, and I asked him all the questions I could think of. For how cruel is it to burden the Heavens with all my queries? There must be someone else to talk to.
I speak with the Devil. He's bound to have some interesting stories.
I ask, “What is love?”
And he says “The blood of roses and thorns.”
I ask, “Why is the sky blue?”
And he says “Because its sadness is infinite.”
I ask “Why did the chicken cross the road?”
And he says “The crosswalk was painted only in its mind.”
I continue to walk. He continues to cling.
For his unbearable heat and flame, I find him an easy package to sport. And the weight isn't noticed under the cool of the trees.
“Why are the shadows cast from the sunlight?”
“Because the darkness needs a place to play.”
“Is there a plan for me?”
“What does your calender say?


:spotlight-left: Honorable Mention :spotlight-right:
Pternoha
OwlA bird in a cage. That is what I have become. Or perhaps what I have always been. A fish in a pond, in a sense. Clichés and self-deceptions, that is all the eloquence I can seem to muster these days. To be sure, illusions and make beliefs are a nice way to pass time, but they are only as good as one allows them to be. And I am afraid I have ran out of patience.
So, I brazenly kick open the door of my cage and dive right into sweet liberty. Freefall. Three seconds of pure bliss as I empty the air in my lungs for the first time in ages and discover uncharted lands, far away from my dull comfort zone. For three glorious seconds I feel the blood pumping in my veins and the unfamiliar thumping of my chest. It takes three short seconds for my veins to freeze solid as I realize my mistake.
What becomes of the fish in a pond once dropped in the ocean? What is a caged bird to do when he has the whole sky at his disposal? Nothing. The fish drowns as saltwater burns his insides and bacteri
Inside outA mute pen long overlooked,

And in my chest a dull call.

I see it. 
I see them.
The myriads of words,
The subtle flow of the cords.
I see that from which the ache stems.
I see the inexpressible fabric so tightly knit.
A mute pen long overlooked,

And in my chest a dull call.

I can take it in.
I will etch it all in my brains,
Burn it behind my closed lids,
Carve it deep within my soul,
So that the words may take their toll,
And that the writing may begin.
A mute pen long overlooked,

And in my chest a dull call.

The words pass through me,
Flowing freely through aging hallways,
Soothing the hurt of the days,
Gazing into my very core,
Every narrow corridor,
Every twisted nook and cranny.
A mute pen long overlooked,

And in my chest a dull call.

It is cramped inside.
Aye, and in dire need of dusting.
The years might not affect the outside,
But they have crushed my insides,
Tearing at my dreams as
DeadlineClock's ticking

I never seem to have enough time on my hands lately. Amusing, really, I could swear I never waste an instant.
Thoughts sail right through the window,
As I sit idly on my prime,
Contemplating the soft rays of the morrow,
And the wind blowing away the ashes of Time.
Oh! There goes another second, another breath I will never get back. Or that I will never take for the matter.
Don't hold your breath

Disappointments and shortcomings seem to have become somewhat of a recurring theme lately. Concerning somewhat, but delving on the matter hardly ever did me any good.
Dreams burn so easily,
Filling the air lazily
Leaving me to put out dull fires
And pick up the scorched embers.
Regardless, forward is the only viable direction I have. Or perhaps I do not even have that one. Go figure...
Words are falling

Strangely enough, I cannot seem to find my words lately. Frustrating, really.
Verses fly by,
Ideas scatter.
But, regardless, ink leaks as I try
And ground


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:iconartsyambassadorart:
ArtsyAmbassadorArt Featured By Owner Aug 18, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Hello WritersUtopia.  It seems your "Poetry and Song Lyrics" Folder is all full so I can't use the poem I'm wanting to submit.  May I ask you to do something posthaste?  Maybe a second folder?
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:iconstrongmedicine:
StrongMedicine Featured By Owner Jun 7, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Hello! I am Medi, and my partner is Strong. We are looking to join contests, participate in trades (Sorry, we only provide literary deviations!), receive prompts, or anything else that will challenge us. There is a general consensus of things we will and won't do on our profile, don't be afraid to throw ideas! Ideas that are used will be credited by whomever gave it to us.
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:iconfluffyfox20:
FluffyFox20 Featured By Owner Apr 19, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
When will the results be in for the 1000wrd contest :3?
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:iconfluffyfox20:
FluffyFox20 Featured By Owner Apr 8, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
I re-submitted my entry for the "1000 Word Contest" because I had the description wrong. So I fixed it up, and added a personal addition.

Hope you give it a chance~ ^w^
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(1 Reply)
:iconsolynara:
Solynara Featured By Owner Apr 7, 2014  Student Writer
So. When are the results for the contest?
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(1 Reply)
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