Writer Feature

Welcome to the ‘Weekly Writer Feature’!

This is MotifInk’s spot to show off some of the fantastic writing that is available on the web for everyone to read. It aims to highlight those writers who show amazing talent at what they do, yet barely receive any recognition due to being hidden away in the strands of this world wide web! O.K,

With the first week of a new school year pulling to a close we’re going to kick start out ‘Weekly Writer Feature’ with a writer who goes by the pen name of ‘WriteByNumbers’. A DA member, her gallery supports a whole host of fantastic pieces which are both thought provoking and wonderfully spine tingling.

To give you a little taste of her work her are two piece from her gallery for you to enjoy!



That is how to describe her.

Spineless: a gruesome word. A word of skinning, of ribs torn from their sockets, of stripped-away flesh and muscles and tendons and a raw and decayed rod of bone and flashing nerves. It is a word of paralyzing, of snipped muscles and snapped necks–harsh, grinding, twisting, and painful. It is a word that lingers with death, with the ones who are missing that whip of nerves and bones and a tapestry of decay. And that is the best way to describe her.

[Sometimes she traces her spine, picking every scab and bruise, separating each vertebrae, just so she can make sure it’s there. (i will call this place home and bite my lip when i say i lost your eviction notice.) Once I watched as she bent forward, just to feel the sharp pain that threatened to pop her ribs and slice her nerves, so maybe she can remember she’s not really invincible. (i’m so, so terribly sorry that i can still love you, even when you forget to look in the mirror to see me.)]

She is a faux paralyzation; she is a willing catatonic soul. She is one who is missing the will and want and ability to move and wish and live. Her life, her death, none of it matters. Her fate is meaningless, and whether she lives or dies is a matter not the angels or the demons or the parasites in her bowels care for. She simply is, and what she is does not concern. Because she is no one.

[Someone told me she prayed to be paralyzed, so she really could be as spineless as he told her she was. (i nod and people ask why i am crying, and i answer i have nothing more to be ashamed of.) I can remember a time when she wasn’t cataleptic, but now it seems if she had any less backbone she’d be dead. (i know i have nothing left to die for–so why not live?)


“Tell me your story,” she whispered, her voice like rattling branches, edged with a certain tone caught between a croak and a croon. “Tell me your story this time…”

She traced his spine and his disquiet crept through each rib. He coughed a sputtering tune, and rose like a bard before her, and began to play his story over the ivory keys. But, fate struck hard on each note, and she grinned at him. For her soul was strange—she only wanted to hear sad stories.

“Long ago, before there was summer rain or the trees were crowned with leaves, there was a man who didn’t have a heart…” he rambled all the time underneath the lantern light. “He was a magician inward and out, an oddity to passersby, a hyena among the sparrows—a mask in a sea of faces. But what secrets did he have! Secrets of smoke and shadows manifested, and the essence of what it is and what it was, and what it never will be. And he enamored strangers with garlands gay and decks of flying cards that fell from his hands like soldiers. A spectacle he was, with his sharpened blades glittering with a deadly promise. And the night followed him like a stray dog, leaving only traces and memories lacking consistency. He was a torn neutral, searching for something lost, something human and with a soul…but his only solace was in cards and tricks, watching people reel and laugh before him.”

She touched his chin and looked into his maroon eyes, “Did he hate them?” she asked simply, tearing her gaze from his, and feeling her skin peel off like bark from a tree. Shivers dashed up her skull, and she carved his story into the back of her eyelids so that she can see his constellation of life.

“Yes,” he answered, and she flinched, her heart broken like a robin’s neck. “He hated them, but no more than he hated the moon or the stars or the cool of the night or everything else that was dead matter.”

She quivered, and the auditorium of her skull resounded with her practiced lines. Vertigo swept through her stomach, and she felt panic tighten its grip on her. “And what of me?” she rasped, her rheumy eyes edged with old tears.
“No…never you.” he answered, his thoughts corresponding, but never identical. Always different, always contradicting.



But just like a flip of his cards, always the same.

Both pieces hold very dark perspectives, but the consistency of high quality writing throughout her gallery has to be some of the best I have seen so far on DeviantArt. This is defiantly a writer that MotifInk will be keeping an eye on to see what she comes out with in the future, and I advise you check out her work as well. Her gallery is well worth the read.

Make sure to subscribe to MotifInk so that you don’t miss out on next week’s writer feature.

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