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About Literature / Artist Sol24/Female/United Kingdom Recent Activity
Deviant for 8 Years
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We are pitch
on an eggshell mess of sky
wet with firework yolks
We eat grapes
bursting laughter
"BBC news it's midnight"
says the chocolate-voiced radio
then an aching
gap, silence unmaking
us: the first chime
cracks our bones
We squint
in the sun a glowworm
in her mist hairnet
standing on crushed mud
Standing last night
on a brick wall unsteady
unknowing of the newness
of the year
:iconsolarune:Solarune 6 8
Georgie's Crumbs
The scars lie in zigzags across my throat. I don't remember the knife that made them, and they're not the point of this story; Annie is, and I'm mentioning them because she never asked about them. I loved her for that. Instead, when she found that I always played extras at the drama club because there were days when I couldn't speak in anything but a whisper, she taught me how to mime. I spent hours practicing in their dusty living room, swaying to the clatter of Georgie's nails on the piano keys. Georgie plays piano like Annie rides horses.
I still find the memory of her down by the old dirt road, where he put Georgie's piano. I turn my head and catch the scent of the wind, the way the air felt when she smiled, the way the dirt tasted when I stumbled off the horse and she caught my hand and brought me up beside her, drew me up to the sky.
I sometimes wonder what she'd have done if I'd been on the ground that day. I drew up Rook before the corner because I wasn't bold like Annie, didn'
:iconsolarune:Solarune 94 56
falls over Friday
everything falls over Friday like it likes
I'm working then Saturday-Sunday
are the only times I can ride the moped
along the Lantic cliff-bones. Billy's strapped in the sidecart,
Billy's eyes are cereal bowls. Mum says I'll kill him.
Last Friday a cow went over and I didn't see it
sprawled on the sand, blood going black:
I was working. Everything falls over Friday.
Saturday-Sunday hikers stride
along the Lantic cliff-bones like they like
thinking they're gods, hikers' faces thunder
coastpaths I'll kill them
Billy's face is milk skimmed by the wind, Billy
looked the same way the Friday Dad
sprawled on the sand, blood going back to the sea
Mum says I'll kill him but nothing
falls over Saturday-Sunday
everything falls over Friday like it likes
I'm working then so I can't fall over too
:iconsolarune:Solarune 8 14
the world seen like smoke, too strong to speak:
green and growing still
in someone to split my soul
and hold the half beside me.
:iconsolarune:Solarune 8 12
Mature content
Sound of Soil :iconsolarune:Solarune 14 22
Odyssey into 2012 - Chapter 8: The Tokyo Loop
The eighth gate is white mist. Kaylin slams open the door, Zephyr lurching inside her, and Darus, lizard-quick, slips inside.
"Get out," she hisses. She isn't afraid any more.
He sneers. "Don't be stupid, kitling. You left Tokyo through this gate, like always. Opening it restarts the process. It's an endless loop. Destroy the gate and finish it. I'm tired of fighting –"
Murderer! Liar! Traitor!
Kaylin rips Zephyr through his mind. He slumps, white and shaking, and she draws out the truth.
"You sealed the gates to weaken me, so I'd be easier to kill. But you had another plan in case I managed to open them. Destroying the final gate would kill me – Zephyr's not meant for that." She trembles. "Earth – this Earth, in the time loop – wouldn't stand the shock. But it would carry you out. You and the real Earth might survive, if the shock doesn't escape too."
"I would survive."

"You'd risk everything for that! You selfish –"
Darus spreads hi
:iconsolarune:Solarune 5 26
The world is not a skeleton. It does not ache bone-deep with our atrocities, nor is it fragile and ready for the breaking. It knows nothing so human, except perhaps to forgive our pride. Let me explain:
Young, I am a bright star with small, pudgy hands for guiltless flower-crushing. Before even that, I am a wispy squall for food, unused to knowing anything but myself, and warmth, and hunger.
The concept of a hero is a natural progression from understanding speech. I am Me. I am the one all the stories talk about, born special, to whom both innocence and wisdom are possible. I am so great a part of my own self that I do not know it can be detached.
I am eleven, narrow-boned and alone in the red earth, when I first feel it.
A seagull slews out of the bright sky and pegs its beak to the stones, draws it up wriggling. I watch its gullet bob. My hand floats up to mirror the lines of its head against the air. There is a cry, and its eye is a pond of yellow fire staring at me, the air a storm
:iconsolarune:Solarune 203 147
We are We, the Hunters of greatest knowledge and spell-blood. We use spell-words to hunt and to Change our bodies to rocks or trees. It has long been forbidden to Change to other Hunters or Hunted, or to kill others of We; yet it happened, and without it We would not be living.
This is that tale.
This is a tale from before the Fire, before the Dark, when the world was still green and the sky was still blue.

We had a Pack in the north, running free under the moon. The hunt was good. The Pack was strong and the prey was weak. The prey was a Hunter, a small running-Hunter; and so he turned, hissing spell-words, but he was claw- and tooth-strong, not spell-strong.
The Pack closed in. The youngest drew first blood, hissing. Wait, the running-Hunter hissed in simple-speak, but the Pack would not wait after a wounding, and they sprang upon him; yet his flesh was familiar. The youngest shrieked as the blood on her claw turned black. It was not running-Hunter blood, but spell-bloo
:iconsolarune:Solarune 97 90
The Cloud Book
The last time I learnt to read, it was from clouds.
They hung on the bald horizon, and I could feel what they were saying without suddenness or ceremony. They lowed like cows on the slopes of my home which was not my home.
My country lay spread out behind me. I blinked and it was gone.
They lowed goodbye –
I did not weep.
"Are you cold?" Anna asked. Slap-slap-slap went the sea on the edge of the boat, trying to pen a letter. I stared out across the water.
She tried again. "I'll get you some bread."
"You asked me if I was cold."
"Are you?"
"If I am, bread will not warm me."
She laughed. It was a dangerous thing to do. I felt heartbeats divide the air and seized her throat in one. My hands were black strokes of coal against her skin and her eyes were very, very pale.
"There is no place," I panted, "there is no place for laughter now."
"We did not have to follow you."
She was afraid. It would be easy to break her neck.
"No-one else came. Only you. No-one else is comi
:iconsolarune:Solarune 22 45
Newspaper Notation
There was a newspaper sky that day, glued across the breakers. "REVOLUTION," said the sea. In a personal or global sense?
I'm a composer, he had said once to Leanne, when she teased him for sketching sonatas on coffee-shop napkins – I've been trained to hear music everywhere. She had laughed and asked him to write a piece for her, the syllables of her name bubbling like wind chimes. He couldn't explain how to change for to of. Music was never a choice – not his as a teenager, and not Leanne's when her laughter begged for translation.
He still had it, tucked away under the piano stool. It was more a dedication than a labour of love. A Letter To –. Leanne had flitted in from the kitchen as he finished writing it. She'd leaned over his shoulder with her hair bread-scented and asked, a letter to whom?
Some things aren't meant to have a recipient, he'd told her. She had looked at him oddly. Perhaps it was the first time that (s)he realised who (s)he was,
:iconsolarune:Solarune 23 66
f l u t t e r by Solarune f l u t t e r :iconsolarune:Solarune 21 22 f l y by Solarune f l y :iconsolarune:Solarune 11 38
How to Miss the Country
The Westcountry settled around Ig's shoulders as the train pulled in. After steely, bustling London, it was a relief to see the familiar hills bulge up through the rain. He gripped the window, as if it might pucker.
"Welcome home!" was the first thing Mick shouted at the station, over the steam and the crowd and the downpour. Ig blinked, and was hugged. Mick never hugged him.
He pulled away, feeling sharp with strangeness. "How a – how's Mum?"
Mick shrugged. "Okay – you know – as well as you'd expect." He sounded tired, but Ig was too busy breathing in the rain to care. He let himself be steered towards the car and listened to the engine cough, tipped his head back and drank in the country as it scampered past, green, blurry – it felt good, being absolved of responsibility. He'd left the bag on the train.
"Ig," his mother smiled. She was propped against the headboard like a doll someone had forgotten about; a tray on her duvet, two empty mugs on the table.
:iconsolarune:Solarune 14 30
Three Windowpanes
The city smokes in mirrors on an autumn day,
sewing sky patches. A dying leaf baking veins on
fire blocks and chimneys hashing wire over
the river. Old dyer staining all her clothes;
sunset braids and rust on roofs. The day
packs itself up, like powder.
Midnight knows itself deeply, an abstraction
by the streetlights sketching out people and a bridge
holding them, or a cloud? They are split by squares,
and words and the shadow on the river-skin a rippling
flag. Scaffolds knot necks between the stars and
they are bare, for only the moon to comfort.
Morning shadows the streets inverted, or perhaps
it was like that before. The sunrise is a butter-knife
smeared in marmalade: drained through roses, through
the river, and a hundred alleyways no-one sees
stitched in like eyes, breathy with the expectation
of the city weave pulling people-threads of laughter.
:iconsolarune:Solarune 33 84
02: Sacrifice
Miller froze, leaving flour.
Waste not.
:iconsolarune:Solarune 2 10
01: Flawed Celebration
Birthday on moving island – friends "forgot."
:iconsolarune:Solarune 4 19

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Solarune's Profile Picture
Artist | Literature
United Kingdom
profile picture by my lovely wonderful talented sister Atlantihero-Kyoxei :heart:

Hola. I am Sol. :) I play folk music and write things, ramble (geographically, when I can, and conversationally, more than I should) and I enjoy delicious vegetarian food and long interesting conversations. I also tie knots and teach people to tie knots.

I speak a decent amount of Spanish – I'm not fully fluent, but I like to practice, so feel free to write to me en español :) (I'm quarter-Spanish and I lived there for a few years).

I'm not on dA as much as I used to be (and most of my writing is showing its age a bit!) but I occasionally poke my nose in. I have a tumblr where I reblog stuff I like and stuff about what's often broadly termed social justice (more specifically intersectional feminism, anti-racism, LGBTQIA+ rights, making the world more accessible for disabled and non-neurotypical people, anti-classism, anti-capitalism, anti-ageism for both children and the elderly, environmentalism – the list goes on).

I am in no way an expert on any of this stuff, and I always try to listen and to learn, to communicate and participate, to be compassionate and empathic. If I do anything that upsets you or that you consider oppressive, please tell me – I'd much rather be told than not. Discussion and communication is the way forward. :thumbsup:

I'm also on Twitter, and I'm a reviewer for Bright Young Folk (you can read my reviews here if you're interested.)

I love: writing, playing music, pianos, folk dancing, books, the colour blue, the sun, delicious vegetarian food, plaid shirts and colourful clothes, happiness, high places in the wind, the early evening, the sea, the smell of the earth in the sun, fresh bread, change, the forest, the city I live in, meeting new people and having random conversations, festivals, my friends, family and my partner. I spend perhaps too much time daydreaming in proportion to living. I have always wanted to fly and I have a strange obsession with potatoes. Potatoes rule. :iconanimefaceplz:

My inbox is generally in a state of overflow and I go hacking through it with a virtual machete when I can (it's not quite as violent as it sounds, promise), but I have to take it slow for the sake of RL and my sanity. :lol: So please don't feel I'm ignoring you if I take six months two years a long while to reply to comments or anything else – I'm not, but I just can't be around dA all the time any more. I love long rambly comments, it just might take me a while to ramble in return. :hug: I'm really sorry if you wrote to me ages ago and I never replied. Feel free to write again. :heart:

:groups: I was an admin over at theWrittenRevolution from 2010 to 2013. They are a wonderful group and were (and still are!) basically my dA family. :) I highly recommend them if you're looking for critique on your writing. (:eyes: Also they're going to take over the world :la:)

Life is not about the destination, but the journey.

The world needs more smiles. So have one. :)

"It is not fair to treat people as if they are finished beings. Everyone is always becoming and unbecoming." – Kathleen Winter


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namenotrequired Featured By Owner Sep 25, 2015  Student Interface Designer
You're alive! :poke:
(1 Reply)
Sammur-amat Featured By Owner Jan 4, 2015   General Artist
Tag a quality deviant: You’re it! Quality doesn’t mean that you have a lot of followers, or a lot of messages. It means that you’re nice to other people, and you deserve to be happy. If you get this message, someone is telling you that they love you as you are, and they don’t care how much followers you have. Send this to 10 deviants who deserve it. If you break the chain, nothing will happen. But it’s just good to let someone know that you love them! Heart
(1 Reply)
Vigilo Featured By Owner Dec 16, 2014  Student Writer
SOON. :eyes:
(1 Reply)
TheGreatSpyExperim Featured By Owner Nov 30, 2014  Student Writer
Hello Solarune, hope everything is well. Still writing? :) 
(1 Reply)
cality Featured By Owner Dec 25, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Happy Holidays, Sol! I hope all is well with you. :heart:
(1 Reply)
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