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About Literature / Artist Chip HowellMale/United States Recent Activity
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Literature
Her Impossible Question
He is smoking a cigarette.
Still damp from a shower and dressed in nothing but a sea-green bath towel: he has arranged himself on the covered radiator beneath the living room window. He sits here, from time to time: smoking, reading, watching the flow of lackluster drama stretched along the nearest segment of Wrigley Street.  He sits here, from time to time, waiting for Nathaniel to get home from late, late nights at the studio.  There is little to see now: only shadows and the motion of a breeze through maple leaves, sycamore leaves, and the sick, orange glare of electrocuted sodium vapor from the streetlamp just outside.  He has opened the window-screen.  A gnat has entered the darkened apartment and rests on the street-lit pallor of his left big toe.  It is the faintest of tickles: an idle, unobtrusive presence.
Bats twitter over rooftops across the street, their voices all-but-lost in the eurythmic drone of the city.  He listens to them—from time
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Mature content
A City Tells You the Things She Remembers :iconchipchinka:Chipchinka 0 1
Mature content
He Stands in the River on a Rainy Afternoon :iconchipchinka:Chipchinka 0 1
Mature content
Homunculus :iconchipchinka:Chipchinka 2 2
Mature content
Aposiopesis :iconchipchinka:Chipchinka 0 1
Mature content
The Apostrophe :iconchipchinka:Chipchinka 1 0
Mature content
Tar-Barrel Street :iconchipchinka:Chipchinka 0 0
Mature content
Midwinter Moon :iconchipchinka:Chipchinka 1 2
Literature
Shifting
She didn’t like the way they leaned on each other, the way they touched one another with hands, gazes, and entwined whispers of cunning, seductive entreaty; she felt a change in the world…the shape of it, and it was all their fault: Jacobi’s and Valencio’s. There were ways to become stranded, to get lost. She’d seen it happen before. She was afraid it was happening again. It was in the way that they moved together: two metal filings skating along the contours of a magnetic field…dancing together. Negotiating. Becoming something else: something new.  They were a couple, now—Valencio and Jacobi—and so they weren’t the friends she’d known before.  She’d lost them, and all that had been attached to their seperateness.
We love you just the same, they’d said to her.  Nothing has changed; we’ve always been friends, we always will be.  It was they lie they’d told
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Mature content
Four Jars of Honey :iconchipchinka:Chipchinka 0 0
Mature content
Home :iconchipchinka:Chipchinka 1 0
Literature
At the Castle Ruins
Clouds thickened over the tower, the cubical keep, the moat of razor-grass, alive with mice, serpents, and things best left unnamed, un-thought, and unmentioned. The sun was more an idea than reality; there was little warmth to distinguish this day from the preceding night. Millipedes and sand-skeets ambled along the riverbank; other things chattered and twittered territorial warnings from within the stand of razor-leaf rushes surrounding what had once been…
“Kings are a different kind of slave,” Vel said, his gaze on the ruined tower, his fingers at gentle play along the warm contour of Adim’s bare arm.
“Even the dead ones?” Adim asked.
Vel laughed. “Especially the dead ones. They’re slaves to history, slaves to anything we might ever think to them. Slaves,” Vel said, trailing off, and the sentence frayed, its ending, its probabilities tattered and snatched by the breeze.
“And what are we?” Adim asked, quietly, his fing
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Literature
Rose, Glass...
I remember him: the naked curiosity burning in his gaze as he examined the petals of a rose. It seemed, for a moment, as if he held something far stranger than a flower. He’d gone to a florist’s shop and purchased the single rose. Its thorns had been removed, and so it was safe to hold, safe for a gallant gentleman to offer to the lady at the heart of his fancy.
I remember what he said.
“They grow the other way here.” He laughed, stroking a single rose-petal between thumb and forefinger.
I can still see him in my mind’s eye—that day—the way he smiled: like a child discovering his shadow for the very first time. His face, frozen in rose-centered scrutiny, was immobile. I remember his strong, delicate fingers: long, at the tips of a long palm. I have heard his hands described by those who read palms. An Apollo hand…the graceful hands of a violinist, a sculptor, a killer. He sat across from me, still in the breezes stirring the
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Literature
Something About Aliens
I saw an Ahuurta today. Ahuurta is not what they call themselves: the Teth’teth’sin call them that. Ahurta is a Teth’teth’sin name, Humans have only borrowed it. I saw one today, an Ahuurta not a Teth’teth’sin. (I’ve never seen a Teth’teth’sin…they never visit this planet.)
My brother sees them often. They are a normal part of his life, and so he is able to ignore them. For me, and anyone else in my village, they are uncommon and mysterious. I doubt that city-folk know any more about them than we do, but they see them on a daily basis. They can distinguish between one and another of them; they can call them by name. He admits that the names by which the machine creatures are known are provisional things: nicknames more like it. The Ahuurta don’t talk much, not like humans do, and so we are left to assume more than we know.
I was coming from a day’s work at the mill when I saw the Ahuurta. I heard it first. It made
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Literature
Gamma Lepus IV
There was an ocean, once. It withered. It died. Only its salt survived, and fossils—if survival might be judged in the presence of shell-shapes like nautical spirals, the imprints of tentacles splayed in arcane patterns. There were fewer imprints than shells. Soft tissues did not survive the death of the ocean, the ravenous ministrations of decay, and later—much later—the sigh of wind across salt and sand. The survivor-fossils—those close to the surface—weathered to nothing, becoming a part of the sand itself.
Deeper—imbedded in layers of compacted, sedimentary rock—leviathan bones marked the repose of larger beasts: whale-things, leviathan eel-things, things with no shape recognizable to the humans who found them. Whale. Eel. These are approximations, more interrogative than declarative. They are a single question mark, buried beneath the face of a planet at once profoundly alien and familiar to the humans now at home on its face.
There are ot
:iconChipchinka:Chipchinka
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Literature
Gamma Lepus 4
There was an ocean, once. It withered. It died. Only its salt survived, and fossils—if survival might be judged in the presence of shell-shapes like nautical spirals, the imprints of tentacles splayed in arcane patterns. There were fewer imprints than shells. Soft tissues did not survive the death of the ocean, the ravenous ministrations of decay, and later—much later—the sigh of wind across salt and sand. The survivor-fossils—those close to the surface—weathered to nothing, becoming a part of the sand itself.
Deeper—imbedded in layers of compacted, sedimentary rock—leviathan bones marked the repose of larger beasts: whale-things, leviathan eel-things, things with no shape recognizable to the humans who found them. Whale. Eel. These are approximations, more interrogative than declarative. They are a single question mark, buried beneath the face of a planet at once profoundly alien and familiar to the humans now at home on its face.
There are ot
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Favourites

Literature
Shells
The fucking psyches tell him to look within and all that bloody jazz, but it's all bullshit. He's killed guys, and that's the end of it. Guys, and girls, soldiers and civilians, until the sound of gunfire drilled into his head and out the otherwise and took everything in the way with it
It's like those stupid shells his mum showed him once when he was young. 'Course, he didn't think they were stupid then, but what did he know. Just a kid who had no idea what it felt like to hold a cold piece of steel in your hand that explodes in hotness and judges whoever's in front with a wham bam and kiss goodbye, say hi to God for me and give him the finger because I'm a murderer now and I guess I'll be having fun in hell thank you Uncle Sam. Sound like the sea, the story went. Like fish and sharks and shipwrecks and dumped human shit and everything, when all it really is is a couple of swirls of air and a gullible little ear.
Maybe he should just go ahead and turn himself into a shell with it's li
:iconTreo-LeGigeo:Treo-LeGigeo
:icontreo-legigeo:Treo-LeGigeo 21 8
Power House by RawSunlight Power House :iconrawsunlight:RawSunlight 15 5
Literature
Mourning is Solitary
My grief is not yours to share
Yours to preempt
Because you felt you had more right to him than I
In the end
We each lay claim to one heart
One sorrow
And if comfort is communal
Mourning is solitary.
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:iconcopper9lives:copper9lives 23 30
Literature
Songbird
She was blind, but could see
everything. Nothing held back
the girl with moonbeams for eyes,
feeling the gardens she walked,
through dozing dewdrop buds,
and stepping from tangerine
puddle to tangerine puddle,
rippling away rain clouds from
the sky at her feet, as she shook
constellations from her hair,
while birds sang from her throat.
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Journal
dA Literature : Prose (#5)
Power to the Prose
 
It has come to my attention, and many others attention, that prose doesn't get as much attention as poetry does in the literature community. It is also very, very hard to find good, decent prose when you have to wade through all the other, mis-categorized pieces in the prose section of deviantART. Well, I have come up with a solution to this problem. I am starting a feature to introduce different prose pieces to the deviants of dA. I have gone through and combed through the pieces to find some really good ones. I plan to do one every two weeks (or once a month, I haven't decided yet). 
I am very irregular with this feature, but I suppose that makes it the more special, right? I'd love to start taking suggestions from my watchers as well. It would probably be a lot easier to do it that way. Wading through all the miscats and the like is tedious. So, note me if you have a suggestion from the next feature! It might c
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View from a window by dogeatdog5 View from a window :icondogeatdog5:dogeatdog5 331 60 Trubble by Flote Trubble :iconflote:Flote 22 3 a good friend of mine once said something profound by NikolasBrummer a good friend of mine once said something profound :iconnikolasbrummer:NikolasBrummer 130 11
Literature
We Were a Bad Cup of Coffee
We were too impatient to wait
So it was never the right strength—
Too weak to be what you need,
And yet, too strong for me to handle.
It was too light for substance
But dark enough
To leave a bitter taste.
:iconVegetabelle:Vegetabelle
:iconvegetabelle:Vegetabelle 24 29
Asatare by Marcodalidingo Asatare :iconmarcodalidingo:Marcodalidingo 68 10
Literature
The Flutter Velocity
I didn't know the bridge would fall
or that the water beneath could consume
the last structures of an identity,
when held still I don't
fight anymore.
The architects were ignorant.
I make gills and breathe,
submit to pressure,
the last car to fall is black.
I don't care anymore.
The shore persists.
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Literature
eugenics in bulk
By the time she was twelve they had already decided she would marry a man who could run a five minute mile and speak seven languages.  They chose her a husband the same way they had chosen her eyes and her legs and the pale freckles that interrupted her nose - the same way their parents had designed their children and arranged their marriages, strategic.
Her father called her petite reine. He owned an antique chess board carved from ebony wood and maple.  Some days she'd sneak into the library, pry open the old chequered box and pick out one of the queens, and she'd turn it round and round, searching for imperfections. It was a plain, ugly thing, huge and fat in her tiny grasp.  She had wondered if he thought of her this way.  
She wondered the same now.  
Her hands were not her own.  A businessman in a white coat had grown them slender and strong, built her carbon fiber bones and nails like arrowheads.  Her mother reminded her of this when the
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Journal
April tWR Prompt: The Tarot Within
Hello to all you creatives out there! Hi!  Before introducing our new prompt, the participants from the February tWR Prompt: A Carnival of Masks are:
    
Clap Let's congratulate Leonca for winning the 100 points we award to a random monthly prompt participant. Hopefully this month we can get many more participants!
Down to Business
      
            Tarot - Ace of Wands by puimun
Tarot cards may seem obscure but they are quite intrig
:icontheWrittenRevolution:theWrittenRevolution
:iconthewrittenrevolution:theWrittenRevolution 7 9
Nest by Softyrider62 Nest :iconsoftyrider62:Softyrider62 334 148 Navigator by JDNelms Navigator :iconjdnelms:JDNelms 100 7 Escaping by Softyrider62 Escaping :iconsoftyrider62:Softyrider62 219 80

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Chipchinka
Chip Howell
Artist | Literature
United States
I am a writer. I love words and the relationships between them. Language seduces me and I love the smell of books, I love the feel of words as I shape images with them, and allow them--in turn--to shape me.

Sometimes, I take pictures.
Interests
I've just finished a story involving a guy named Tómáš, and I'm feeling the urge to explore something else set within an alien world.  I love science fiction and I love fantasy just as much, but I'm not really in the mood to write a story within one of those venerable genres.  I love sf and fantasy, but my urge, based on the life of Tómáš, is to explore a different sort of alien...the ultimate other...a human being whose history doesn't follow the western paradigm.  In the hopes of uncovering something, I found myself listening to music.  I found something that I want to share, something that I can understand, despite the fact that I don't understand the words.  Music is a universal human thing, and it's also a the easiest way in which we can glimpse the alien; I've found something alien, and I'd love to share it.  This is what I've heard.  This is what I've fallen in love with.  For now, at least.  I don't understand a word of it, but yet I feel as if I understand it completely, in a wordless sort of way.  This is it.  Click.  Listen.  Enjoy.  It stops abruptly, but perhaps, this is an aspect of its charm.  Here is its:




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:iconvegetabelle:
Vegetabelle Featured By Owner May 19, 2015  Student General Artist
Thanks for the watch!
Reply
:iconsoftyrider62:
Softyrider62 Featured By Owner Nov 10, 2014   Digital Artist
Thank you very much for watching me.
Reply
:iconjparadoxx:
JParadoxx Featured By Owner Nov 9, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you for the favorite and feedback! :)
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:iconcopper9lives:
copper9lives Featured By Owner Nov 5, 2014  Professional General Artist
:wave: Hello, and welcome to :iconwrittenexcellence:!

:pencil: We're delighted to have you aboard! Please see our most recent journal for information about our writing theme of the week!

:pencil: Please take a moment to check out our group information! If you have any comments, questions or suggestions, please either comment on the group's page or :note: the group, and one of the friendly admins will get back to you ASAP!

:heart:
Copper
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:icontramlaw:
tramlaw Featured By Owner Nov 4, 2014
Thanks for watching!!
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:iconladybrookecelebwen:
LadyBrookeCelebwen Featured By Owner Oct 12, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the watch! :D
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:iconvfreie:
VFreie Featured By Owner Jul 30, 2014
Thank you for joining :iconthewrittenrevolution:, we're delighted to have you with us. Welcome to the revolution. I salute you!

We're quite a busy group. We regularly post prompts andpublishing opportunities for our members to try. Don't forget to drop into the Written Revolution chat room as well!

And feel free to add us on Facebook and TwitterI am a dummy!

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:iconchipchinka:
Chipchinka Featured By Owner Oct 5, 2014   Writer
I get to these things so late!  I'm glad I joined this group and I'm already feeling inspired to write a whole lot of new stuff...just as soon as I finish drinking Dr. Pepper and stuffing my mouth with potato chips.
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:iconfogke:
fogke Featured By Owner Jul 28, 2014  Student Artist
thank you a lot ! :)
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:iconchipchinka:
Chipchinka Featured By Owner Jul 28, 2014   Writer
You are welcome, of course!
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