I've been wanting to do this for some time, but I never really got around to really doing it. You see, through my work for groups (#ProjectComment especially, go visit that group, it's an amazing place) and random browsing of deviantArt I've come across some really talented artistst who definitely don't get the attention they deserve. Now I know that not that many people will see this, but I feel that maybe it can make a small difference.
So, what's all this about, then? Well, I'll continue my "Watchers Feature" series, but at the beginning of each month I'll feature underapprechiated arists (who are not amongst my watchers) instead. So it's SF (special feature, not sure how to name it yet), WF, WF, WF from now on every month.
With that said, here's the "Special Feature" for December!
I really don't understand why she hardly gets feedback, she is a great digital artist and dabbles in other mediums as well. She even has tutorials, you should got check those out, too!
What really surprises me is that his more than 1000 (!!) watchers are mostly inactive, for he too gets hardly comments. That's just sad, because he's an amazing digital artist!

Now, I'm someone who prefers poetry to prose most of the time, but this deviant's works really captivated me (she has poetry as well, but you know, those short stories of hers are awesome). Do take the time and read through some of her works, it'll be worth your time!

Second Street El stands under muted chrome lights, legs splayed apart and left hip cocked out like the jagged end of a lipstick smear. The soft undercurrent of voices drifts from the club crowd up to the stage, quiet murmured conversations below the chink of glasses and clicks of the mike stand slotting into place. If she listens close enough she can almost hear the bare echoes of a young man's laugh, a woman's soft tinkling sigh, the swell of a family's conversation.
"All ready," the man before her grunts around the toothpick hanging out the corner of his sun-cracked mouth. El reaches a hand over to tug at the length of color-faded silk knot

One More Drink"You want to get a drink?"
Six words. Six little words casually spoken by an innocent man without any idea of their implications.
"You want to get a drink?"
It was only a reunion with an old friend; it was not supposed to become a battlefield. One moment I'm strolling down the street chatting light-heartedly with a mate from school, the next my world is threatening to crash down around me.
"You want to get a drink?"
To him it may mean nothing but a simple boy's night out, but to me it means much, much more.
"You want to get a drink?"
Anxiety, depression, obsession, not caring what I did, who I hurt, how much I lost as long it got me a

Russian RouletteThey take her on her honeymoon.
The wedding was lovely, or as lovely as it could have been with a couple that were more polite acquaintances than anything else and two sets of in-laws as stuffy as a dusty pile of money. They grab her when she sneaks out for a walk one night, two men, beefy, not even bothered to arm themselves. Her last thought before the bag is shoved over her eyes is to wonder how much this would ruin her parents' plans.
She comes to in a small brick room on a sallow mattress, windowless and lit by a cool yellow lamp. There's a man there, standing just outside the barred door.
"Kelly Shale," he says, voice nasally, greasy

UsEvery face has an eye, every eye has a sight,
To seek and know, what is wrong and right.
Every sight has a vision, every vision has a dream.
And every dream has a future, to find, to fight.
Every face has an ear, every ear hears a tale,
Of good and bad, success or fail.
Every tale has an end, every end has a hope,
And every hope can live no matter fire or hail.
Every face has a heart, every heart has a soul,
To lead the world to that one last goal.
Every soul has a voice, to speak and to trust,
And every voice, is one of us.

The PianistA warm, lilting melody wafted through the nightclub, nimble fingers dancing over crisp black and white keys as the song of the grand piano drifted down from the stage, filtering between the irregularly spaced tables to fill every niche and recess of the dimly lit room. The lone figure in the spotlight moved gently with the music, her long chestnut hair billowing down her back in loose waves and her wine red dress fanning out around her knees as she sat on the worn leather stool. It was not a complex song she played, with no difficult notes or intricate rhythms, but there was something about it that was so enthralling, so entrancing, as if eac
That's it! If you have suggestions for the next feature, by all means, note me or comment on this journal!
And before I forget it:
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Have a nice week!







