Shop More Submit  Join Login
About Literature / Hobbyist Member Andrew Liu20/Male/United States Groups :icongrammarnazicritiques: GrammarNaziCritiques
Truth can be harsher in a Crit
Recent Activity
Deviant for 5 Years
Needs Premium Membership
Statistics 333 Deviations 1,362 Comments 10,405 Pageviews

Newest Deviations



My first impression of this piece is that it isn't too ambitious and is written mostly for therapeutic purposes. I honestly didn't thin...

Hello, I will be critiquing your piece on behalf of :icongrammarnazicritiques:. I will do my best to help by suggesting improvements that can be made and genera...



In class, the students stare
as the Professor turns a quick circle
in the air, waving the wand like one flicks on
the light in a dark room. Her desk
grunts in frustration, waddling unhappily
on cloven feet, its massive frame, now
ungainly and filled with tiny holes,
the hair like a million minuscule trees
leaking out. From multi-planed
to multicellular.

There is a general
look of amazement
until she mentions
this is an art available
well-past their first year.
Someone scoffs
in disbelief. The professor
goes on, explaining
how they would not be turning furniture
into anything with snouts or whiskers,
amphibious gills, or even the most remote
resemblance of a spine. No.

Strict educational guidelines: For first-year students,
there are restrictions, rules, simplistic tests.
Controls and supervision abound. Only
small organisms, invertebrates.
Exoskeletons and six to eight legs for them.

She begins handing out buttons. Moans
of complaint issue around her. The air is heavy.
She throws back an apple. The desk
grunts, in appreciation this time. On her lips,
the faintest trace of a smile. She
goes on...

Atoms. Cells.
Brain tissue. Matter.
Coins. Dice.
Dualities versus
spectrums. She explains...

This world too is patterns. This world too
is opposites and elements opposing.
The things of matter are not always
the things of life. But what lives, in its entirety,
fits within matter. The kingdom, large as it is,
is still contained within the cosmic.

So too is its fragility, she mentions
as one clumsy boy squashes his button,
his wand now slick with internal juices
that were not there before, minutes ago
bundles of atoms bunched like beeswax
springing out in coils, developing legs
half-formed and the size of a thread, but

no less the miracle
ironed out by the heavy-handed inexperience
(and inattentiveness) of our young
miracle-maker, here.

“What a surprise,” she notes, “There will
be no second chances on your exams.”
Goes the didactic chastisement. She smiles
knowing the secret that will take them years to learn:
Everything, absolutely everything,
in spite of its unknowable movement,
is as girded in order, is as chained in patterns,
as the stars, waltzing to their silent music
dreaming the steps of their ancient dance.
Yes, it's from Harry Potter.
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: strong language and ideologically sensitive material)
Such small moments of eloquence
are all I ask for. God of hemoglobin,
god of iron and calcium deposits.
Make me a poet, of daffodils and springtime,
make me lover, of symbiosis and monolithic
noise pollution. Turn me
into a prize.

I want to be daughter, a daughter
of light, of scar tissue and backs
swollen with diseased lymph.
I want to be peace, come
in small needles and gliding whites.
The angel of fluorescent lights.

I want you to call me “baby”
and really mean “my child”.

I want your drug addictions, your prepackaged symphonies,
the whole, half-off, on-sale, Glamour Girl bundle.
Make me queen of nowhere, goddess
to a thousand groves of cracked glass.

Come on. Let the infants
wail for milk, the insurance agents
knock for ghosts. I am not here
and neither are you, old flame.

We depart, for departments,
leave it for the it scene,
come back to Roman ruins
and the disgrace of empires.

I am your opus, your delight.
I am immortal aria, cigarettes
and choked breath. That girl.
Reading skin beneath dim light.
Daughter to a sterilized womb.
Mother to a thousand fuckers.
I am nothing and nobody:
lipstick stains on coffee spoons.
Water Slanders Blood
Another random, full-form apparition. Sprouting from my fingers like Athena on a thousand miles of caffeine. I guess, a lucky hit? 
The horror movie goes like this:
that the girl, in white gown and whiter innocence,
finds the rooms stained ketchup-mustard wild, that she
loses her balance or a shadowed hand grabs
her unsuspecting foot, that she falls down
into a room anointed like a diamond
in unnatural, oily light. Such as can only be
produced from a hi-def distortion of desire.

Green, eerie overtones  
predominate. Caustic state.
Eleven o' clock, she runs out,
her mind an explosion of interrogative
clauses. Fragments
of the old self
collide with the new.

Any proper ending has her suspended
like a dream
between the desire for blood
and the instinct to preserve
even but the mere illusion of purity.

She dives, her development
squandered. Left
to the imagination of the watching eyes.
You can already hear those hands
clicking away, impatiently away,
wanting so much more than melodrama reds and
an empty house of blue. I mean. For God's sake.

She is flat as cardboard.
But strangely compelling.

Whoever thought that such a caricature
could be boiled to such a character?
Stupidity becomes the suicidal instinct
of the unloved and the neglected.
She is everything we don't want
and only what the producers do.

And yet, it seems incredulous
how she exists by just a nail's margin
outside the director's control,
in spite of his obvious attempts
(jump scare, mirror scare, turn around,
I see you~),
always, we see her


Little wonder she seems half-enlightened,
ever beset by terror, yet
caught, untangled, in the dreaming spirals
of her ever-widening eyes.
Rooms of Blue Skin
I am demolished by the finer points of living.
This was the story, that she betrayed you,
that you betrayed her, broken vows, both sides,
both trapped in the same falling coin. I wanted
to pull you out of there, as she, that callous hunter,
left you, this callous hunter, dead from
what was it? The sting, the poison?
Blood loss? I cannot even fathom
how that body of yours, once
so resolute it strode shoulder to shoulder
with mountains, arms big as tree trunks,
a chest broader, more powerful than the sea,
could become the lifeless earthwork before me.

I did not wish to see you. Not like this.
This was the story, that they betrayed you,
that it was the earth mother, that it was
the jealous twin brother, that the scorpion
whose master changes hands depending
on the teller of the tale, was only obeying
a higher instinct. Well, that doesn't mean
I didn't smile as my hands aged, withered,
rotted its slanderous body, those sleek scales,
the chitinous armor turning to eggshell
in my hands. I admit, it was wonderful
to feel vengeance's cruel glow
illuminate my hollowing forms.

But that was only half the story:
Copper wire, bronze eyelids, what remains
of your first love, this tribute
to a king of a land made savage with beasts.
Hephaestus, that old cripple with a heart like
sun, fixed you up with vision, a thousand
whirring gears, only a thousandth
of a centimeter wide, churning, turning,
nerves aligned with nerves, wired
like a clock to dynamite. He didn't know
how soon you would become
a monster, the monster
you were fated to be. How those
clockwork eyes would become
the unblinking ommateum
to a swollen horde of resentment.

But, that wasn't it. That wasn't the you
I had known. In my version of the story
it was the sun who took pity
on you, who had become sullen,
hopeless, with eyes as placid as milk.
Then warmth, celestial, spreading
all over your face as that old soft-heart
kissed you, chased your blindness away.
In many ways, it was a lie. In others,
a peace offering.

In the story after the story
I met you, then, wrapped up
in your hatred of the girl, her innocence.
Her loss overshadowed by yours. Too much
for one heart to bear. The Underworld
roared from the magnitude of your suffering.

I pulled you closer, whispering:

Do not go where I cannot see,
into the dark I cannot reach.
Please. Remember my suffering.
Remember my hand reaching out.
To grasp at nothing.

And into the world I had created
out of your suffering, the broad trees,
the endless fields, the world, empty
of all sans you and me. I told you,
“Chase me. Hunt me down.
And if you catch me
you will know. And see.”

So we ran. Into the dense,
soundless trees. Their faces,
whole bodies of nothing
but green noise. I felt you coming after me
through the lush, rain-kissed world,
tumbling over branches, flying
like the light of a thousand springs.
I never wanted this to end, the chase,
the leaves, the light! Your heart
beating just the same as mine in flight.

You, flying after, so swiftly over the roots
and branches, arms hanging loose, legs pumping
for their lives, as if even the dream of the scorpion,
now nothing, was after you. Your eyes steamed with heat,
piercing the air, firing volley after volley,
so fast each futile fusillade, flickered as
I flowed like snow through your hands, melting
through the holes of your net, water-water
a nothingness like water, your hunt
meaning nothing to one as I, so careless, so effortless
and made of such silence.
You threw yourself through the dreaming forest,
wanting desperately, so fiercely, for
what was it exactly? That closed longing.
When your breath came shallow and fast,
the air blurred blue with wildflower and-and
all you could see was me, this fleeting figure,
rolling-rolling, a distant sun, a field
ablaze with flower and air.

You were so close, coming in
so fast, I thought, almost, for just-
a minute, I thought-
you would catch me.

      of flower
   came loose     from my     fingers.

Outstretched, my
hand aligned alongside
this, some small scrap of self,
this brave baby explorer
of the space between you
and me.

And all at once,
it fell to you.
One second
to have your
hand collide
with nothing.
Just one
for me to
pull away. I
could not be reached.
You fell out of the dreaming world,
eyes ruined from sorrow.

But I was there, I was always there.
I held my hand out to you and
in your blindness, you recognized me.

And you fell on top of me, our legs
splayed like rose stems
in a bouquet of bones and tendon and sinew.

To be wrapped inside such joy
is to be embraced by this, the wide-brimmed sky,
the blue water, the endless fields of grass.

And as I held you, the blue sky
turned to stars, night falling upon us
like a scattering of dream-spun light .

Your hair's dark shine dissolving
to fine sand, like grains,
like sun-sweetened heat. The bronze

melted off your eyes, coppery tears as
your heart broke loose, running fast,
flooding with starlight.

Your eyes
were the color
of paradise.
00000000shall be0000000000000000000
000000000000000Whatever has0000000
0000000000will happen0000000000000

Remember us00000000000000000000000000000000
Remember us all.


What is the number
of permutations
of a set containing
all the atoms in the universe?

The answer
would be so

it practically doesn't exist.
Experiment. Needs something. Don't know what.
Okay, so there's a contest going on at that my friend Josh is hosting. This is the third year he's done it and I can tell you from experience it's really fun and challenging. It's essentially a nine week long contest that spans the summer. There will be a prompt every week ranging mostly from prose, but sometimes requiring poetry or screenwriting. It's open call, although only ten lucky writers will get to participate, so make yourself a free figment account and check it out here. Anyone can join and submissions last until May 15th, 5/15. Contest starts Monday, June 2nd.

Here's the guidelines:

1.) Contestants must be American citizens (or currently living in the U.S.A) to be eligible. 
2.) Contestants must be 15 or older to be eligible. 
3.) Open call begins Tuesday, April 1st at midnight and will close on Thursday, May 15th at midnight. ALL eligible writers will be considered, but only 12 writers will be chosen to compete. ANGAVol. 3 begins Monday, June 2nd
4.) Contestants will be performing weekly challenges and must be positive they can actively participate for 9 weeks. 
5.) All are welcome to join the ANGA,Vol. 3 group as fans, but only contestants will be allowed to compete in the weekly challenges. 

Spectators are more than welcome.


Andrew Liu
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
Hi, I'm Andrew Liu. I'm 19, a student at East Los Angeles College and Pasadena City College, and I love to write. That's me in the picture, staring at the Lansdowne Herakles held in the Getty Villa. If I look bemused, it's because he doesn't have a dick. I've been writing since middle school and I started taking it seriously around senior year, so, sixteen or seventeen. My favorite genres are urban fantasy (Harry Potter, Percy and the Olympians, Fablehaven, that sort of stuff) and fantasy (Cry of the Icemark, American Gods, Good Omens). I mostly write poetry. I switched over from prose because I could never manage to finish writing short stories. And I mostly write as a hobby.

I'm also an English major. My favorite period is American Modernism. I've read T.S. Eliot, E.E. Cummings, Robert Frost, Wallace Stevens. I'm a big poetry buff. My all-time favorite pieces of poetry are pretty varied though: Cathy Song "Cloud Moving Hands", Sharon Olds "The Elder Sister" & "I Go Back to May, 1937", Sylvia Plath "Mirror" & "Fever 103", Mark Doty "Tiara", Elizabeth Bishop "The Fish", and Muriel Rukeyser "Song for Dead Children."

If I were to summarize my writing style in three words it would be: lush, dream-like, and intense. People have always told me that I'm very good at imagery and description, but not so much at editing or making sure my work flows effortlessly.

Other hobbies I have include video games, anime, and more reading I guess. All time favorite video games: Folklore (PS3), Bastion (PC), Dust: An Elysian Tale (PC), Persona 4 (PS2). All time favorite animes: Natsume Yuujinchou (Natsume's Book of Friends), Puella Magi Madoka Magica (Magical Girl Madoka), Nodame Cantabile, Ao no Exorcist (Blue Exorcist-manga only), and Magi (again, manga only). All time favorite books: Caramelo (Sandra Cisneros), American Gods (Neil Gaiman), The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald), Asterios Polyp (David Mazzuchelli), Like Water For Chocolate (Laura Esquivel), and Fahrenheit 451 (Ray Bradbury).

I swear I read and watch more than this, it's just I'm really picky and have strangely specific tastes. Ask me for writing critique and feedback. I'm more than happy to give advice.

AdCast - Ads from the Community




Add a Comment:
jade-pandora Featured By Owner Nov 10, 2014
:wave: A random "hello", Andrew.
TheGlassIris Featured By Owner Nov 10, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
oviedomedina Featured By Owner Oct 25, 2014
Happy birthday!
TheGlassIris Featured By Owner Oct 25, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you.
oviedomedina Featured By Owner Oct 25, 2014
No problem!
iris2501 Featured By Owner Jul 27, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist

:iconrelievedplz::iconsaysplz: Ha, sorry for the delay, but I was out for a while and I just could not thank you.

:iconheehee-plz::iconsaysplz: Thank you so very much for the fav

SolidMars Featured By Owner Apr 30, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Wave by chil96

thank you kindly for the fav. I'm glad you found my work worth your time :tighthug:
thetaoofchaos Featured By Owner Apr 25, 2014   Writer
I appreciate the visit and :+fav:
oviedomedina Featured By Owner Apr 15, 2014
Thanks for the watch!
TheGlassIris Featured By Owner Apr 15, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome. :D
Add a Comment: