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About Deviant ready to be heartbrokenFemale/United Kingdom Recent Activity
Deviant for 12 Years
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Literature
Snakehips
Snakehips
            Andy's friends started a band called the Waverley Wearers, and since he couldn't play an instrument and they needed a drummer, they let him play drums. But he couldn't keep the beat and soon they grew tired and replaced him with a snake-hipped washout who claimed he was almost somebody once, but this was probably not true. On their first gig without Andy, the Waverley Wearers and their new old drummer got spotted and signed and were on their way to world domination. Or so it felt to Andy. Really, they were stuck on a bottom scraping small town tour opening for a band you've never heard of, unless they have "the poor man's band you've also never heard of" suffixed to their name.
            Still, the band was not the end for Andy. There were big things coming, he told himself. He couldn't allow himself to consider the possibility (the probability
:iconMacDoherty:MacDoherty
:iconmacdoherty:MacDoherty 0 5
Literature
Skellington
Skellington
               No one knew where the skull had come from. It might have been in the drama store for years. It didn't really matter anyway, as, for the moment, no one was paying it any attention. They were too busy preparing for the school play. Jocelyn was running over the final script, crossing out the references to anal sex the year twelves hoped she wouldn't notice. It was a bad move to let them write it themselves, but the class was so enthusiastic. And it would have been fine if the head hadn't decided that they should perform it at the end of term for their parents. At first Jocelyn was thrilled, until she realised the amount of work it would entail. But the students were so excited, and not just about the possibility of slipping allusions to bumming into a school-sanctioned production – and it would give Jocelyn the opportunity to make her name. This was her second year at St Bernadette's
:iconMacDoherty:MacDoherty
:iconmacdoherty:MacDoherty 0 4
Literature
A Lecture On Bears
An extract from “Giving Bear-th – An Exploration into Recent Revelations Regarding the Migratory Habits of the Ursine Genus in Search of Parental Fulfilment”
                 It is not yet common knowledge, but all bears are born in the same place. It’s true. We found this out only recently. Somewhere out in the wilds of Alaska - nowhere you’ve heard of, nowhere you could get to easily, and nowhere you’d want to, certainly not at the end of winter. That’s when they congregate. We used to think they hibernated the whole time but now we know otherwise. They wake up a couple of weeks before we think they’re going to, and head off on their journey. When we think they’re still sleeping. They leave extra early in the morning so we don’t notice, when it’s still dark. It’s a very good idea, so it’s not too late when they arrive. And they can grab
:iconMacDoherty:MacDoherty
:iconmacdoherty:MacDoherty 0 4
Literature
Random Stuff
I like cake much more in theory than in practise.
I pepper my conversation with it but I never buy it.
I like cakes that have breadcrumbs up the side but that's it.
Maybe a gateau too.
But apart from that. I don't like icing or buttercream or jam.
And I hate marzipan. ESPECIALLY marzipan.
Marzipan's for the birds.
***
Take the last road to Reykjavik
We'll meet again in Reykjavik
On the streets of Reykjavik
We'll be together again
Where rooftops are tipped with ice
Where little kids wear hats and gloves
We'll walk on frozen lakes with care
Reykjavik - let's go there
I've never been to Reykjavik
I've never been with you
But maybe we can make a plan
I'm scared to go alone
***
Isn't it sad for Little Boots
That now the window's closed
Though she came first
Her number never came up
Too many others came after
With brighter bleach and more facade
Think of poor Little Little Boots
Do you think she might be sad?
But why get trite for strangers?
The door was open but she didn't walk through
She
:iconMacDoherty:MacDoherty
:iconmacdoherty:MacDoherty 1 13
Literature
Morte
When he died, he was asked to come up with a sentence that embodied his existance. All he came up with was
He went to the toilet and sat in the cubicle so he wouldn't fall asleep in the open-plan office.
:iconMacDoherty:MacDoherty
:iconmacdoherty:MacDoherty 0 7
Literature
Noyfriend
The only German I know
is Ich Liebe Dich.
It gets me into a lot of trouble.
Ich Liebe Dich, liebling.
Ich bin ein Berliner.
Kiss me. Kiss me.

(That bit's international.)
And then he's still hanging around
But the moment's gone
and I'm gone too but
he's close behind
calling to me in words I don't understand,
clutching my hands and my face and other things too so I have to say
Nir ist publick!
As though it means anything to him.
Never give your heart so freely.
Why would I want his when I don't know what to do with my own?
Das ist nicht my boyfriend.
Das ist mein noyfriend.
:iconMacDoherty:MacDoherty
:iconmacdoherty:MacDoherty 2 10
Literature
People Are Awful
People Are Awful
                  If I’d known what was going to happen that day, I probably would have broken up with him by phone. It’s not even my problem. It’s Ben’s problem. He was late. He’s always late. Not so much now, but anyway. He was late, and he knew I’d be angry. But I wasn’t angry because I knew that all I was going to say to him was:
                  It’s over, we’re finished, I’m ending it, I never want to see you again, we’re breaking up, you disgust me, I’m leaving, don’t call me.
                  So it didn’t bother me whether he was five minutes or ten minutes late, or an hour late, just so long as he turned up. I wouldn&
:iconMacDoherty:MacDoherty
:iconmacdoherty:MacDoherty 229 181
Literature
Art Star
                 Daniel stood awkwardly in the gallery. He wasn’t looking forward to this evening. In a sense, he had been waiting for it his whole life, but now that it had arrived, he felt ill. He had spent an exhausting afternoon installing his paintings, but now they seemed to wilt among the ultra-realistic, ornate landscapes or elaborate bowls of fruit exhibited by other artists. There were even uncanny facsimiles of homeless people, drawing attention to social issues. Daniel’s abstract slashes of paint seemed as complex as finger painting in comparison.
                 He had completed a circuit of the exhibition already, feeling increasingly intimidated as guests filtered in wearing vintage dresses and sharp shoes. He had never seen so many sunglasses aloofly worn as night fell. Daniel had spent a mom
:iconMacDoherty:MacDoherty
:iconmacdoherty:MacDoherty 5 9
Literature
This Actually Happened
We walked through darkened midnight streets past terraced houses frozen in a.m. bliss. It was neither cold not breezy; the first and so far only mild night of the year. We were the only living things, or so it felt. We walked on, and spoke of piffling things; love and fear and jokes only we understand and stories we think we heard
- - - - then draw to a simultaneous halt. There is a front window, there is a sheer gauzy curtain. There is a TV set. On it, we make out the image of a pneumatic blonde, dressed in pink, though not for long, as she peels off her bra to reveal a pair of potentially inauthentic, magnificent but indistinct breasts, censored by the netting.
The security light flashed on as we passed the house, but in our shocked lingering, it went off again. As my partner-in-curiosity decides we should move on, his motion causes the light to illuminate once more, attracting the attention of the Alpha voyeur within.
As the scanty image suddenly transforms into the blue of the inde
:iconMacDoherty:MacDoherty
:iconmacdoherty:MacDoherty 1 4
Literature
Puddleduck
Puddleduck
My girlfriend is going
to break up with me
soon. Before, she used
to jump in puddles so
I'd think she was cute.
Now she does it so
that she gets me wet.
:iconMacDoherty:MacDoherty
:iconmacdoherty:MacDoherty 5 15
Literature
Friday's Child
Friday's Child
Evan was full of love. He had been lucky in his life, and his only sorrow was that others should suffer. On his birthday, feeling privileged for forty good years, a young man stopped him in the street, and asked for change. Without thought, Evan emptied his pockets, giving his phone, his bus pass, his watch, then he took out his wallet, and gave him that as well. Less burdened, he continued until he was stopped by an elderly man, asking him for relief. He lived in a flat with no door or window panes, and the wind howled through and froze him to his core. Touched by the man's story, Evan gave him his house keys and directions to his abode, so he may freeze no more. Wandering further, Evan came across a homeless girl with a babe in arms, dressed in rags and imploring for aid. With tears gathering, Evan took off his coat and offered it to her. Then he removed his jacket, shirt and tie, and laid them at her feet. He kicked off his shoes and socks, pulled off his trousers and
:iconMacDoherty:MacDoherty
:iconmacdoherty:MacDoherty 7 9
Literature
Tick Yes or No
              David had never been gifted, but always enthusiastic, so he closed his eyes and thought of Emma on the bus,
              Emma, glorious on the bus, Emma on the threadbare worn seat as regal as if it was a sedan seat, as if she was being carried, as if every person who shyly avoided the near-atomic burn of her beauty were her footmen, just as every person on that bus would fall to their knees and let her stand on their backs, as though they were velvet capes to protect her most delicate and precious feet from treading upon the ground, that heathen ground, where the plebs and mortals walk, and every person on that bus who gazed upon her explosive visage knew that
              Emma was born to float above them, as her domain was not the world but the sky, for she was
:iconMacDoherty:MacDoherty
:iconmacdoherty:MacDoherty 4 12
Mature content
I Love You, Harry Gregor :iconmacdoherty:MacDoherty 3 12
Literature
Tarantella - Oct 2008
                It began with a dame. It usually does. I had been lying awake listening to the rain crack off the windows. She rang in the middle of the night, and I answered immediately. ‘Meridian,’ I said as a hoarse greeting.
                On the other end, she gave a small gasp, as though she hadn’t expected anyone to answer. ‘Maxwell Meridian?’ she said in a timid voice.
                ‘Yeah,’ I said, sore to be disturbed at this hour. Next to me, Ellie stirred and turned her face away from me. If I knew her at all, she was faking sleep so she could listen in.
                ‘I need help,’ the girl on the phone said, t
:iconMacDoherty:MacDoherty
:iconmacdoherty:MacDoherty 0 4
Mature content
What A Waster, part 3 :iconmacdoherty:MacDoherty 0 2
Literature
What A Waster part 2
5. Remedy
                
                Now relieved of the distraction of his relationship, Damien threw himself into his project with a new resolve. He found composing a social masterpiece surprisingly easy. It was as simple as keeping a diary, except that he remembered to write his book every day, instead of just once before abandoning it. The months passed and he built a nice routine of writing all week, with the dole office on Wednesdays to break up the monotony. By the time he had reached the six month mark, his new lifestyle seemed completely normal to him. One of his biggest concerns was how he would go back to an existence dictated by getting rid of refuse, instead of embracing it.
                Of course, the smell still turned him fro
:iconMacDoherty:MacDoherty
:iconmacdoherty:MacDoherty 0 2

Random Favourites

La Masquerade by girltripped La Masquerade :icongirltripped:girltripped 1,772 221
Literature
Hipster personal
*
          I just want a girl who likes Belle and Sebastian
          Who thinks they're fantastic, loves their muso monasticism
          Happier with Tigermilk than out on the lash again
          And cups of tea and equine dreams and volumes by Brautigan.
          I just want a girl who likes Camera Obscura
          'Cos they're even obscurer so their indie-cred's purer
          Like a Hubert Van Eyck to the Belles' Albrecht Durer
          In the grammar of pop, they're a subtle caesura.
          I just want a girl who likes Helio Sequence
          Who's aware that they're decent notwithstanding their recency
          Whose indie curiosity will surely be piqued once she
          Starts buying Sub Pop samplers with unhealthy frequency.
          I just want to find a girl in love with The Who
          Hüsker Dü, Silver Jews, Frou Frou, Q And Not U,
          And I'll set aside Hatherley, disdain t.A.T.u
          If you buy them and then pretend you like them too.
*
:iconLazyLinePainterJohn:LazyLinePainterJohn
:iconlazylinepainterjohn:LazyLinePainterJohn 12 57
Literature
Poor Substitution
It's at this point in time,
the pinnacle of your
adolescence,
when you realize
that your mother can't
play catch nearly as well
as some kind of father
could have.
:icone-s-k:e-s-k
:icone-s-k:e-s-k 5 30
Literature
I Feel
I feel and this is my burden
I feel and this is my curse.
I feel and this is my torment.
I feel and this is my verse.
I feel so they won't have to.
I feel so they won't hurt.
I feel so no one looses.
I feel so they won't invert.
I feel so much it pains me.
I feel so much it aches.
I feel so much. I suffer.
I feel so much. I break.
I comfort them. I help them.
I save them from their pain.
I love them when no one else does.
And I love them all the same.
My empathy consumes me.
But I help them anyway.
If I don't do it, no one will.
So I keep their pain at bay.
Empathy is torture.
But if it helps those in need,
I will bear my cross in silence
So others may be freed.
I feel and that is my anguish.
I feel and it is surreal.
I feel and it might kill me.
But for those I love, I feel.
:iconLostintheMyst:LostintheMyst
:iconlostinthemyst:LostintheMyst 1 4
Literature
The Death Poems
The Death of Starfish and Submarines
By noon, the coastline reeks of it:
rotting fish, rotting soil,
and all the little shorebirds hopping,
hoping to find free breakfast,
maybe brunch. The tourists
infest the scene quick as flies,
drop their oversized towels,
open lemonades, complain how loud
the gulls are—those rats of the sky.
The Death of Grandmothers
She lay broken at the bottom
of her cellar stairs for eight days
before the neighbor wondered
and called the police
and they wandered in
and carried her out
while the dogs protested
and the house protested
and even the limp dead body
protested. Then it was lunchtime
and they left her in the trunk
while they stopped for cokes
and gasoline and talked about
whose wife was prettiest.
The Death of the Butterfly Bush
This year the early frost came unsympathetic
and silenced all the life of my garden.
The monarchs fled to Mexico
and all the little pink flowers
withered from the heartbreak.
The Death of Presidents and P
:iconmusical-nymph:musical-nymph
:iconmusical-nymph:musical-nymph 199 252
Literature
It's Just Overkill
I fell asleep
                   to dream of him,
But I don't think I can
                  anymore.
Words of love and tragedy are
                  empty
And Romeo and Juliet
                  means nothing now.
Not even pity for the starcross'd lovers falls
                  from my bemused heart.
I realise I have tried to woo him
Through love expressed over and over
With different rhymes and different words.
All futile attempts
In his oblivious world.
- Laughter
- Long talks
- Foolishly changing
- Being myself
- Even denial
All tried,
A
:iconTinkerKel:TinkerKel
:icontinkerkel:TinkerKel 1 6
Literature
I want my heart to stop
I want my heart to stop
I came so far for beauty
and I never left my room;
I’ve walked the starlit highways
and stood, silent, below streetlamps
on freezing cold winter nights,
wanting to give my coat
to keep you warm, but instead
leaving your present on the bus home.
I want to fall ten stories high,
Feel my ribcage crushed by concrete.
On silent days spent sat alone we talked
Of everything – well – nothing much
but love, as though life itself would not allow
the thought of anything else.
And I’ve imagined so many times
the words to bind your heart to mine,
and I didn’t call, when I said I would,
and your birthday came and went.
I want the tears to stream like blood about my arms.
I want the incision to drain pure alcohol.
Most clearly of all, I’ve sat by your side –
by that window – and looked straight into
your eyes alive with flame,
the night sky on fire,
and I’ve wanted to die, so that you might
turn and say, “I knew him
:iconblindsuperhero:blindsuperhero
:iconblindsuperhero:blindsuperhero 2 7
Reflection by Jean-Baptiste Reflection :iconjean-baptiste:Jean-Baptiste 2 1
Literature
point blank morning
.
I turn on the TV at 4 am.
I haven't woken up this early since I quit the band
      and even then, it wasn't 'waking'  so much
      as 'night walking'
headlong into a point blank morning.
there are only 7 channels-
3 of which are in Spanish
and always (always)
have beautiful latinas
dancing their sex into the sand
of an anonymous beach.
     And I have never felt
     less useful
     as a white woman.
Public access on 88 has a fat man in a turban
donating astrological forecasts
to insomniacs and people
with fucked internal clocks
       from dripping in and out of time
       zones.
Water-bearer, break when you are willing;
bend when you are not.
I turn off the TV at 4:36 am.
I haven't gone to bed this early since I quit the band.
We had our bass player sex
in above-garage apartments.
I'm a cheap date with
vodka and orange.
And just the fact that he was there
       (and you were not)
made me throw-up
on the futon of some guy named Footer.
I always break, whether I'm willing or not
:iconWhoKilledKirov:WhoKilledKirov
:iconwhokilledkirov:WhoKilledKirov 11 33
Literature
Theme and variations
.
            Today I saw a young man with a cello. He
            sat primed and alert for some minutes while
            the CD orchestra strode firmly to his stave.
            Drawing his bow, he groaned the strings in
            catgut agony the space of one fuzzing bar.
            Sheepishly returning the baton to 00:00, he
            shrug-smiled and glanced at his earnings.
            Today I saw a nun on a bicycle. It seemed
            the pe
:iconLazyLinePainterJohn:LazyLinePainterJohn
:iconlazylinepainterjohn:LazyLinePainterJohn 7 32
Literature
Seven people you know
.
    Indie boys and girls who lack the basic wit to just admit
                  they can't articulate their isolation.
   Still they rise above the hordes who haven't time for minor chords
                 they pray to Zane Lowe for a revelation.
   Scenesters and suburbanites who stroll the city wrapped up tight
                  against its cold and spiteful sense of purpose.
   Whimsy and ironic laughs, and corduroy, and chiffon scarfs
                  are no defence against the urban circus.
   World-weary adolescents hopeful for antidepressants
                 it would beat pretending to read Nietzsche.
   Nihilistic rage is cool, it's better than straight A's in school
                 but girlfriends and admirers still don't feature.
   Hipsters in the hip cafes, they slip the h
:iconLazyLinePainterJohn:LazyLinePainterJohn
:iconlazylinepainterjohn:LazyLinePainterJohn 8 19
Literature
Mistress
Long before our flame was lit,
the ocean was your lover.
Her greens and grays had formed
the foundation of your dreamlike existence,
and her beaches drew you in as if by some
primordial calling.
You spent your summers in her tidal pools
and even winter could not drag you away.
The little blue crabs reminded you
of ballerinas, and their strange movements
made you laugh.
On the worst of days—
like when your parents told you that
their Joy had died,
her gentle lapping smoothed all your
rough edges.
Once you tried to lose yourself in her depths—
you swam hard until your body collapsed with
exhaustion and screamed with frustration as
she spat you out again.
She knew it was not yet your time.
As you grew, the world shrank until
the ceilings almost hit your head and
unwinged, your mother was no fairy queen.
Silent reassurance was found in the always-endless seascape.
She nurtured you through heartbreak
and in those toppling moments of desperation,
the consistency of her tides gave you balance
:iconmusical-nymph:musical-nymph
:iconmusical-nymph:musical-nymph 32 129
Literature
Unravelling
I want to want nothing, you want to just feel
I want to remember you when you were real
You numb in the coldness, you dullen your sight
I want to remember you when you were right
Our present is failing, our past is undone
We're losing the struggle with what you've become
You suffer in silence, you tear me apart
You want absolution, I break my own heart.
:iconPreviousGreivous:PreviousGreivous
:iconpreviousgreivous:PreviousGreivous 3 5
Literature
Vincent Curtis + the Pure Form
"Since music is the only language with the contradictory attributes of being at once intelligible and untranslatable, the musical creator is a being comparable to the Gods, and music itself the supreme mystery of the science of man."
-- Arthur Schopenhauer
The rain beat down on a humdrum town; I know that Vincent would not have had it any other way. Vincent John Curtis, the lonely, sweet obsessive, studious misfit, failed writer, suicide. One of those we lazily dismiss as life's victims, as if to shift our guilt to providence. Vincent, my friend, sparse funeral completed, whose pitiful legacy was now my possession. A life described and defined by music and the documentation of music, messily contained in a battered leather case.
          Thirty-one years, with little to show for it but debts and an alcohol problem, and a vast record collection that had burned out of existence with my friend. He'd have played one as he splashed the oil,
:iconLazyLinePainterJohn:LazyLinePainterJohn
:iconlazylinepainterjohn:LazyLinePainterJohn 2 6
Mature content
An apology :iconlazylinepainterjohn:LazyLinePainterJohn 4 14

Activity


deviantID

MacDoherty
ready to be heartbroken
United Kingdom
Current Residence: London Town via Northern Ireland
Favourite genre of music: Eurovision written by Serge Gainsbourg
Personal Quote: Sic transit gloria
Interests
Writing here played a huge part in my development as a writer (boke) and in my life. It is hard to remember a time when I didn't understand how to write, to beaver away in silence for hours, tearing out pages, giving up on beloved characters for the greater good, and sometimes for nothing at all. The writers and artists I encountered here mean a huge amount to me. But one by one, life gets in the way, people move on. I move on. I think it's time to attempt something new.

In future, all new writing will appear here: bronaghfegan.wordpress.com/

Do stop by if you want to say hello.
x

Comments


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:icontangled-up-in-blue:
tangled-up-in-blue Featured By Owner Jul 29, 2009
Maybe more cornrow-y if you have time.
Reply
:icontangled-up-in-blue:
tangled-up-in-blue Featured By Owner Jul 29, 2009
I went crazy awhile ago YOUKNOWJUSTFORFUN and I unwatched everyone, but I want to watch you again because I like you because your hair looks cool and I want you to do my hair like your hair but greener and uglier.
Reply
:iconmulticolourpirate:
multicolourpirate Featured By Owner Jun 20, 2009
thankyou for the favourite on moustachesRawesome =P
Reply
:iconswolfy:
swolfy Featured By Owner May 23, 2009
congratulations on your DD- and i really enjoyed reading your work :)
Reply
:iconmacdoherty:
MacDoherty Featured By Owner May 24, 2009
Thank you so much, that's really sweet to say.
Reply
:iconmode-de-vie:
mode-de-vie Featured By Owner May 22, 2009  Student Writer
Congratulations on your daily deviation! :) I've placed a link to it in the sidebar of my journal page.
Reply
:iconmacdoherty:
MacDoherty Featured By Owner May 22, 2009
Cool, thanks!
Reply
:iconmystical-machine-gun:
mystical-machine-gun Featured By Owner May 22, 2009
Congrats on your DD. :eager: :D
Reply
:iconmacdoherty:
MacDoherty Featured By Owner May 22, 2009
Thank you! I'm thrilled.
Reply
:icontangled-up-in-blue:
tangled-up-in-blue Featured By Owner Jan 15, 2009
I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch what you said. You had spinach in your teeth and it distracted me. I didn't want to interrupt and tell you because it seemed like you were really into what you were talking about. But yeah, there's spinach in your teeth.

Jesus, try this souffle. That's your name, right?
Reply
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