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About Literature / Professional Megan KennedyFemale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 11 Years
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Kingdom of Night
He played the violin in the moments before his death, played Beethoven as if it were the only song ever written.
The Germans had disallowed the works of their great musicians to the likes of him, but here in the meadow between earth and the kingdom of night, the Germans had no voice.
Snow fell like ash over the frozen ground, and felt almost warm as a blanket. Corpses were scattered around them both, half-buried in the white, their strength finally stolen. In the shadows the boy heard the song, sweeping away the hunger and pain in his belly.
He played the violin in the dark until breath left him, and he was one more unmarked barrow in the black forest. The song rang forever in the boy’s ears, in the void beneath his ribs.
:iconfallenidle:fallenidle 130 44
30 by fallenidle 30 :iconfallenidle:fallenidle 1 8
god is a fixed star,
vertigo be damned as she
watches space tumble around
her, eating echoes of forgotten
prayers for breakfast, chewing up
the history books and rearranging
them in her gut.
:iconfallenidle:fallenidle 15 15
Homespun Labyrinth
Sometimes I walk in circles in my mind,
Where I start down the sunny road and then,
I'm thinking of you,
And failing,
I'm drowning in letters and adjectives.
I see the road and then,
We're in Italy in the yellow sunshine reserved for dreams,
Drifting dark oceans in a boat made of
The warmest shadows of my childhood.
This is the sea of being where all is born,
This sea we breeched.
I see the road and then,
The world is blind, on fire,
And everyone is screaming.
Without my rifle I am nothing.
I see the road and then,
You've brought me to the ocean again with
Your abyssal eyes and neverwords,
You're diving through a galaxy of singing jellyfish,
Talking to me in my mind
While your lips stay asleep
We drift.
I see the road and then,
The hole where you belong is gaping, hurting,
and I cannot stay for long.
I can't look, I can't look in the mirror
And find only myself looking back, without you,
The mountain's widow, haunted and alone.
I see the road and then,
The wolves are howling at
:iconfallenidle:fallenidle 7 12
Maybe she was swayed
by the way bottle-blonde faded,
or yanked by the burn of
ropes around her words,
or convinced by the wary eyes  
praying for a burrow.
Maybe it was the way
she could never quite make out
the language they spoke,
or get their colors just right
on the canvas in her mind.
Or maybe it was as simple as
missing that magical ear-bone
that turned screams into songs.
Maybe she knew because
she had no other way, not
after finding this thorny hedgerow
with her own little hands,
and having no gloves herself,
she could only bleed and hope to
hide the red.
She knew she was tilted back
against the grain,
a weed twisting in the upgrowth.
All this time, she just
never had a name,
or broken roots to call her own.
:iconfallenidle:fallenidle 7 8
Writers Never Feel by fallenidle Writers Never Feel :iconfallenidle:fallenidle 37 27 When I Grow Up by fallenidle When I Grow Up :iconfallenidle:fallenidle 3,586 400
His was a terrible place of grief, adrift on ill winds, watching the cold blue sea roll back and forth across the horizon.  Whenever a moment came that I could no longer stand the sunshine, he was there, waiting for me.  All the colors and lies just melted like crayons left out on a hot summer day. Gulls cried from the churning gray skies whenever he stepped from the house, onto the porch which wasn't quite yellow, eyes shining that weren't quite green.  As if his very presence muted light.
It was a dreadful place to visit, but he told me the sea was life and death, the mother of us all and to whom we would all return.  One day  I watched the whitecaps as they flowed across my blue-black mother and wondered if any place was so lonely in all the worlds as this cliff, wrapped in a sweater with no makeup, the constant flow of creation beating in my eyes.  
He had coffee and two rocking chairs and a sleepy sheepdog to take up spac
:iconfallenidle:fallenidle 12 7
The Stranger
You find the wanderers
Who scour the ghost forests
And midnight beaches
From the surf you sing
Wet and pale
Ancient and unafraid
When salt kisses
And stone touches
Melt into immortality
Your whispers leave marks
On the skin of my neck
And your smile tastes so bright
Kneeling thanks begin
And sandy fingers dance
Scarring milk-white skin
You fill my shadows
With the aching sun
Blinding my tears with rain
My tongue wishes
To speak in your mouth
But will you know my words?
Or must I lick the lies
From your darkest blood
And swallow whole your sins?
In your star-filled arms I lay
Drowning in prayers
And so ashamed to move
My demigod, my bitter bones
The roots of my soul
The ageless love of my blood
The only thing you promise
Is that darkness feels like velvet
Cold and soft on my tongue
:iconfallenidle:fallenidle 8 10
The Night Is Waiting
“The true darkness!” Professor Leary bellowed, pointer quaking. “This is what I hope to uncover.”
“It’s been done, Dale.  No one’s interested in the psychoanalytical ramblings about the Goth cretins that hang out on M street.”
Dale Leary whirled and squinted down at his colleague as the last of the dejected sentence echoed off the auditorium walls.  Frank Adler hitched his ankle up onto his knee, a sarcastic angle to his head.
“That, dear Professor, is not what I refer to,” Leary snapped, stalking away from the makeshift slide show he had prepared. “You and I and every other academic know the difference between that and what I will seek to find.  I’m not speaking merely of psychological answers.  I plan to incorporate the full scope of the human experience.  Anthropological, theological, evolutionary biology and sociological aspects as a whole, as eyewitnesses coming together t
:iconfallenidle:fallenidle 183 172

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Just Do It
"Just do it," I say to myself as I hold the knife firmly, its blade scratching at the course grain of my stubble hair. "I want to know what I'm capable of."
I intend to neither inflict harm upon myself, nor to use it as an idle cry for help. It is, in the simplest terms, to test myself, to know my limits.
My hand trembles and finally I yank the blade across the forefront of my hairline. It hurts and starts to burn immediately, much the same as the sensation of passing a dull razor blade across a thick growth of the chin, leaving the aftereffects of a partially trim beard and reddened flesh beneath it.
I rub it and check my fingertips: no blood. I put the blade down. One by one I pull out the other knives and examine closely. But I cannot do it. I'm too afraid to risk a more serious attempt. It was, after all, only a test. And yet I do not know whether this test was a success or a failure…
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Tips For the Novice
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:iconsuture:suture 371 195
And what should be said of the heart?
When the weighted wheels of poets address,
Grind to rust I would still express,
Some sadness on my part;
A nothingness that bleaching now,
Has brought the blooms that once sprung forth,
To bend their stems before blank wrath
And find their colours cowed.
Love and hate need not be foes,
The two may rage together,
Indifference is... what fells the rows,
Of those who said forever.
:iconpenessence:Penessence 15 28
Well, my friends, the day has finally come. I've stored or removed most of my old works from this page and they will not be returning to deviantART. I want to give deep thanks to everyone who has supported me here; I literally wouldn't be the creator I am today without my time in this community.

BUT this isn't goodbye or even that sad honestly. I haven't quit writing or creating. If anything, I'm literally inundated with creative gigs. Things are amazing and I'd like you to join me on my next step by supporting my Patreon

Here are just a few of the things Patrons can access:
- Monthly poems & surprise short stories (including your old faves from DA)
- Moodboards (like ones for Kitty and Hank from Bury Me In Smoke!)
- Weekly Patron Posts on a variety of topics
- Weekly Image & Words 
- Monthly post The Craft wherein I share my decades of writing experience 
- Links & behind-the-scenes looks at my Religious Education Series sponsored by The Satanic Temple

I am creating a lot of varied, awesome stuff, and Patreon has made it super easy to support any and all of it in one single place. Come join me there for regular updates!

Remember, I'm also loud and awesome on Twitter (@sixmoments), if you miss me a whole lot. 

THANKS DA. I'm one of your children forever.


fallenidle's Profile Picture
Megan Kennedy
Artist | Professional | Literature
United States
Writing keeps me alive, and is slowly killing me.

Fiction Work of Megan Kennedy

Digital artist/photographer for over ten years at Abuse of Reason Art and Photography, with work featured in several international publications, and commissioned by bands and publishing houses in multiple countries.

Fiction writer with multiple published works, including horror eBook, Bury Me In Smoke.

Creator of the Religious Education Series sponsored by The Satanic Temple.

Freelance/ghostwriter of a variety of boring and non-boring subjects.

Patreon: Megan Kennedy
Facebook: Megan Kennedy


Add a Comment:
meubanks Featured By Owner Mar 4, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
"Writing keeps me alive, and is slowly killing me." I liked that. I've always said that writing is keeping me sane as it drives me crazy.
fallenidle Featured By Owner Mar 21, 2016  Professional Writer
Ain't it the truth?
kimsol Featured By Owner Jun 1, 2014

Thanks so much for faving! :iconbark-plz:

theelfhybrid Featured By Owner Apr 23, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
HAppy birthday :)
fallenidle Featured By Owner May 11, 2014  Professional Writer
Thank you! 
Add a Comment: