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About Literature / Artist Ray Richards30/Male/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 10 Years
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Literature
Empathy Bomb
The fog rose up around five o'clock. Old man Rudy Jeffers made a note as he checked his watch and leaned deep into his rocking chair, surveying the rooftops of his little town, feeling connected to the silhouettes of pointed roofs, thinking each a soul he almost knew to the moment. When lights bubbled up and died out. Each took a representation of souls.
He folded the newspaper over his dry, thick fingers and lurched forward peeking his head close to the wooden screened door.  "Did you want to read the paper, Maryanne?
He stayed parked for only a moment before he settled back into the incline of the chair.
The window jerked open behind him, wooded splinters scraping in their dull motion. A weathered voice yelled. "I don't  want to read anything about until that Gibson boy is found."
"Lord, I'm sittin right in front of ya', Anne. I can keep that page if ya want."
"Fugget about it"
"Suits me."
The plane cleared the mountain far above the town, it's decals lo
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Literature
Unperceived Depths
There is a bright and shining hope. The water shimmers and engulfs the view as glossy red metal subs plunge into the green depths. The mossy things under the waves, shrieking horrors despite the silence of the crushing darkness. Insanity lays siege to the lights. Duty calls every man to sit as the world slips away.
The surface will not miss them but they will long for the time they can leave the pressurized chambers. They feel it behind the walls. The crew know it is there even if they don’t look. If they study their screens hard enough, read every syllable of their books, dot every “i” on their formal paperwork; They still know the insanity that lurks just outside. They see it through their closed eyes. The insanity waits outside peering through the hull with their gouged sockets. The feel the men. They taste their fear and bite away at their control.
The things outside are little more than ghosts and much more. Few have hands left. What fingers were left were sacrif
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Literature
The day, the night
The day, the night, the standing light in the standing time between the day and the rhyme. No one suspects the ever living, ticking betraying stance of themselves. No one counters their own rebellions as the wage on in the soul and the sound of the hallowed ground. there aren't as many police as they think. the safety they imagine is just that because no one can save us from ourselves. Where the cattle and goats feed of the land, we consume our souls. We forsake what we hold dear because nothing else quite feels like it is worth the time to defile. there is an epidemic in my mind that reeks the whole mind and seeks to destroy the images of a boy and taint the stance of a man.
The girls with their pearls all rolling in the light shimmer in the glimmer of destruction’s light. Those that detect and collect respect that there are no boundaries for where the dollar has power.
Lies stack up and we experience truth through fictions. The only truth is true with the imagination. Relevant
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Literature
Snow Fall
The perfect snow drifts perilously to the earth. It twirls in the wind. Twisting in the air as the heat pushes past. the wind is always pouring from among high in an effort to find balance. The only result is turbulence. Breath of desperate pleas beat flakes and trees alike as the fall continues. Landing is most dreadful. There is no control for the frozen patterns. No means of reason to attempt to succeed. Cars blaring horns blaze on the ground. It gets close and the wind meets it and bends to the curvature of the hood. Flakes are tossed on a wave of movement. Unseeing and caring. Some lose their majestic form as they lie in puddles. They land softly, always softly. A perk of design and kindness. It hovers for a moment. The tension passes as the blanket of comfort fades away. Laying in water, dirt is pulled up over the crystals. It is warm now. Strange. It dissipates as a teardrop and mixes with that which fell before. Next time, a field perhaps.
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Literature
Over Indulgent
There was a time for us. I haven't written about you in a while. There was a time when I wrote about you every day. I missed you. Now, I just want someone to hug. You don't hug me. You haven't hugged me in a long time.
There was a time when you hated people. You hated them for me and for my honor. You said that they disrespected me and you didn't like them for it. I was proud and happy and content with you and you alone. I was happy to have someone so devoted to me. Someone to ring my cause before I knew I had one.
I still have people that ring my cause. People that stand up for me and hate on my behalf. It is different now because they hate you. They hate you for what you did to me. For what you said. For the year of grieving that you did not deserve. They hate you and you will never be welcomed back to my cause. I vetoed your exile. I tried to leave the door open for your return. They came back with a super majority. The override came swiftly. You don't want back and they don't want
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Literature
Just because it is a cycle, doesn't mean it is all
The idea of quitting is nothing new. You let the words bounce around your head and then you let them spew. In private, alone. In the alley behind your home. you drain your throat of everything in your head and hope it leave you alone. but it breaks down into the soil and gets swept back up into the drains. and washing out into the oceans where liquid has few names. Until it is hoisted up into the sky and fluffs out into clouds that methodically pass you by. The ideas went back inside you and come down as rain but you stay indoors dry and insane.
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Literature
The Hiker
The snow fell in sweet silence on the serien meadow. The thin trees stood inches apart from each other filling the expanse. There is  blood pooling in my sock. I don't know what to do with it. The others knew first aid. They were headed nowhere, though. This is the right direction. I know it. These surroundings are completely new. I am bound to hit land soon. I can take care of my foot then.
Oh. Apparently my shoe has soaked through. There are red footprints leading up to me. Life is funny sometimes. It is kind of hard to breath. I think I will sit down, take some nice deep breaths.
that is funny. My tan seems to be gone. I guess this will just let me get tanner. The guys at the office will be impressed. The office seems like a completely different reality from this place. Everything is calm. Nothing cares for what time it is. Things happen and succeed without demanding everyone's attention. Why do I feel like everything is looking at me?
I kind of get the appeal of nature, t
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Literature
Our Dead Selves
To all of our dead selves. they lie there. damaged, dismembered, dead. Every lifeless husk in various stages of rot and or preservation. The glassed over charred one, still hanging off the chimney. I don't even remember which of the husks was me. They don't stab. It is oddly suspicious but I stopped asking questions long ago. We ran out of bullets after a few months. The early corpses are further away. Back then we were disturbed by the contradiction of our dead selves being burried by our living bodies. We use to go so far out that we lost a few bodies. Hell, we lost a lot of bodies.
We use to bury ourselves, too. Use to call ourselves "them" and "it." We use to fight about what exactly the corpses should be called. We agreed to disagree a few times but that didn't last. We would try to trek out to our graveyard in silence but we would get to talking and directing and then the shovels would be dropped as we both pulled swords. The swords lasted longer than the ammunition but those sho
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Literature
Sitting Quietly in Pale White
Sitting quietly in a pale white breakroom. You can tell a break room because it looks desperately and thoroughly used for fifteen minute increments several times a day and lacks any real distinction of style outside of borrowed furniture, lockers of questionable safety, and vending machines. It makes an obscene amount of sense that one soda company would be contracted to sell in the store but another would own the machine in the breakroom. The steadiest most desperate patrons would be employees. The illusion of choice in lieu of laziness. It is always easier and cheaper to bring refreshments but that is if planning was easy.
He sits there in the breakroom holding a red leather journal. Fountain pen floating centimeters over the page with the constant threat of leaving ink in strategic places that convey meaning to discerning onlookers. He stares at the pop machine and thinks about the illusion of choice and the its threat to free will. The clock is broken and the second hand twitches u
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Ugh by TheSugarRay Ugh :iconthesugarray:TheSugarRay 2 5
Literature
Reluctant wish
Something in the way.
My demeanor has sprung a leak.
You are the center of my conceded world
I have ignored it as best I can
It is okay to eat fish because they don't have any feeling.
You make me wish I was Nirvana's fish
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Literature
Heart Pounding my Brain
Today is the day. I cannot think about it, too long. Otherwise, I get sick to my stomach. I am going to ask out the obscenely cute girl, from work. Ambiguously single with at several male friends but she is proprietary single, none the less. I'm still unsure, though.
I have come up with a plan. I will get her attention.I won't bring up any other bullshit to talk about, straight to the point. I will ask if she is seeing anyone and I will request that we go out sometime. When do I take her out?
She has told me she is busy. Quite the busy girl, all the time. I am available late or early, whenever. I don't know when we both will be available. I could take her out at work. No, that would be unpleasant, embarrassing, and not at all romantic. Should I really be planing dates right now? That would look weird, right? If I go from being unaware of her relationship status to throwing times and places at her. I can only see that ending in dodge ball, I want to avoid that metaphor.
So, setting up a
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Literature
The Beautiful Clowns
There is another one. Tall blond, shutter-shade sunglasses, pink novelty tee, and jeans that show me too much ass. We are trying to march down this boulevard to make a scene. Me and my gang, we aren't funny and are not here to chase tail, even if we did find it mildly attractive. Pocka-dots and an ironic sense of humor. When the clowns roll walk into where you live, you will find that you were on our turf all along.
This was a long time coming. We should have just taken what was ours. We had a girl selling on a street corner. Snow, not ass, we don't sell ass. We give stupid people stuff that keeps them stupid and there is no woman who deserves to be some banker's sweet escape. I find that women fight just as well as men, if they are treated like they can. Mother's fight better, pain tolerance and a constant angry stare.
Take Bridge, she was fourteen when we found her. Skinny as wire on a fence and high on crack. I don't give wasts of girls like that a second look but not Bridge. Even o
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Literature
Literal Love
There is a column of love between me and you
Our warmth fills it and connects us
Love wraps my head. A halo of joy that you have given me
I look at my chest and yours
Imagining your heart beating
I have had this with with some
You have had this others
Asleep you moan and wrap your arms around me
I have never been so warm
our love envelopes us
Heat is plenteous. My foot slips out of our covers to the frigid air
I will always return to this place in the past
My mind is here now but I feel the crowd of future memory
Our love ties us through time
Under this blanket the world is exiled
Their rules do not stop our union
Their judgement does not part us
this blanket is our Bunker. It is good to be underground
Your fingers are bare and it bothers me
At this moment our love is assumed to live forever
Our caves shelter kept us together
I wish our love would extend past this blanket into the world
When we left the blanket the worlds frigid air vaporized out love
I am left with your love burning d
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Literature
The Fable of Girl and Lover
There was a girl who assumed her boyfriends personalities as masks. She liked, as they liked and listened, as they listened. One day, she had a new and exciting Lover. Truer than any who had come before. They danced as never before. They performed amazing feats for one another and wove tails worthy to be told and remembered. They knew each other, so well, that when she took him to be her mask, it did not fit. It itched and bothered her judgement. She discovered that it was not him but a mask that he wore. She called him a hypocrite for not calling her a whore. The lover was disgusting and unable to provide in her eyes, now. But. His words and ideas inspired her. She no longer would live under an identity of another lover. She didn't know herself from her masks. She had rejected her lover's mask and found that she had been herself. Once she left, she sought herself, what she was with no man. Her Quest was herself but it would prove intense and demanding.
Meanwhile, the lover, aware of h
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The fog rose up around five o'clock. Old man Rudy Jeffers made a note as he checked his watch and leaned deep into his rocking chair, surveying the rooftops of his little town, feeling connected to the silhouettes of pointed roofs, thinking each a soul he almost knew to the moment. When lights bubbled up and died out. Each took a representation of souls.

He folded the newspaper over his dry, thick fingers and lurched forward peeking his head close to the wooden screened door.  "Did you want to read the paper, Maryanne?

He stayed parked for only a moment before he settled back into the incline of the chair.

The window jerked open behind him, wooded splinters scraping in their dull motion. A weathered voice yelled. "I don't  want to read anything about until that Gibson boy is found."

"Lord, I'm sittin right in front of ya', Anne. I can keep that page if ya want."

"Fugget about it"

"Suits me."

The plane cleared the mountain far above the town, it's decals long wiped and concealed for a cheery call sign. A computer hummed on top of a mass of whizzing wires and diodes. A man in a long coat of buckled leather ruffling his thick eyebrows to peer through his goggles at a scrambled display of a tablet, as he tapped away at the screen and leaned forward to turn a thick dial. The door at the rear of the play opened, letting cold night winds whip around everything and grab at loose straps and chattering carabiners.

The man raised his hand and waved over two waiting soldiers. Who lumbered toward him in reply. They approached the large hunk of metal and lights and braced themselves against it, nodding to each other and then to the man in leather. The large of lump whirled to life and they all breathed in before pushing into a smooth motion. The man in leather patted the tablet impatiently and the hunk cleared the back of the plane, stopping in air just as it cleared the lowered ramp.

The men looked at each other and then at the man in leather, who was slamming his fingers on the tablet. After a moment it moved away from the door and started a slow descent. They all settled into chairs on the sides of the bay. Staring at the yellow and red lights as it came back into their view, slowly sinking into the vagueness of the fog.


Deputy Mauve Gibson clicked his high beams on and off. He looked into the churning grayness and watched his lights burn paths of closed domes in front of him. Only a few yellow and green reflectors cut through the gray air. He adjusted his hat and leaned into his cruiser, turning the knob on his center panel bring the radio pitch to a loud buzz. His back cracked as he leaned back over and opened the door.

"Sector 8d, clear." A serious voice announced to the empty car.

He stood in freshly dewed sod, leather belts stretched and rubbed against balanced pouches. He dropped his head to his shoulder and rotated his arms before reaching into his chest pocket, behind his badge to recover a cigarette and a lighter. He took a few steps onto the pavement and lit the thin white paper held by his lips. He looked past the road into the deep fog held between the dark shadow of surrounding forest. The forest only rescinded from the impression of the road and stood imposing in its darkness. There was a red streak and whiz overhead but he shrugged it off seeing the red glow of the end of his cigarette in his glasses.

After a minute his let the cigarette fall and kicked it with his heel on his way back to his cruiser.

the north ridge bridge moaned under its own weight in the darling wind that got caught in the creekbed. Underneath it's blue painted bolts, Bruce sat holding a tin can between his thighs Two walls of scrap stood between him, his modest fire and the wind. The fire cracked and licked at the air. His eyebrows flared with thought as he swayed gently. Music exploded in his mind as he hummed disjointedly, failing to match the vast notes of trumpets and drums. His joints ached but his mind oversaw the whole orchestra from his hunched position. His bones ground into each other from years of use but he settled into his corner anyway. The crept babbled and the wind whistled but Bruce cooed indifferently as he took a long pull from his thick bottomed bottle. He took out a long knotted string that was anchored by a chipped pocket watch. The minute hand laid limp to gravity. He studied the minute hand and said Nine, thirty-three. Time to eat.

The explosion sent shock waves throughout value. There were no compulsions only a motion to bend ahead to the knees as blood and viscera was caught up.

Empathy Bomb
A town distracted by a missing child gets a surprise dropped on them.
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deviantID

TheSugarRay
Ray Richards
Artist | Literature
United States
I like characters. They let use see the world through their eyes and we empathize with them.


Don't forget to be AWESOME

Current Residence: Iowa,
deviantWEAR sizing preference: small,
Print preference: sandscript?,
Favourite genre of music: Rock, Favourite photographer: Kristine Weaver,
Favourite style of art: noir,
Operating System: windows 7,
MP3 player of choice: zune,
Shell of choice: turtle,
Wallpaper of choice: emrald,
Skin of choice: kinda pale,
Favourite cartoon character: Daffy Duck,

Personal Quote: Don't dismiss your feelings. Try to dwell on them for at least ten seconds.

There may be some content overlap her and on my other sites.

sugarwords.wordpress.com/
Interests
It is about the time of night that my mind flutters and never finds a solid peace of thought to land. I see the things that I use to post here. I miss the discourse. This was a nice place to start. I don't know where I went sense the messages in twenty eleven. It is not surprising because I have never been a goal oriented person and I am so very insensitive to the online relationships. 

I have continued to write but now that I think of it there isn't anything that I can think of. I had just finished my free writing for the day and I was feeling neglectful because there are so many people I have come in contact with that I have not been able to check back on. I have this tick where my mind jumps from subject to subject and often I neglect to established the bridges for other. Especially, things like this. I want to say something but I don't know the final point.

I am talking to a friend I have met on tumblr and they are going through a breakup. Which, is my origin on this site. (other than porn.) I wanted to come back and look at some of the stuff I deemed worthy of the public, back then. I remember the nice things that came from this site. Whenever I think of my time on DA it is always of the past. My mind has made a distinction between then and now. I don't understand what it is.

I have gotten better but I cannot promise all that much better. I have certainly gotten darker in my writing. When I was sad I wrote of the beauty of the world. Now that I am happy, I write about the disturbing feelings of emptiness that tugs at me about the world. 

I am not trying a Gatsby reaching out to daisy things. It is just a website, I can always visit. My browser still knows the password. Here are some words. I'll post a new thing to the collection.  I love you Deviant art. For all that you meant to me then and all that you mean to the people who can't go a day without this milkygreen website.
  • Listening to: Because the Internet-Childish Gambino
  • Reading: Lisey's Story
  • Eating: M&Ms
  • Drinking: The Atmosphere

Comments


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:iconcapninsanity:
CapnInsanity Featured By Owner Jun 12, 2013   Traditional Artist
FRIIIIIEEEEEEENNNDS
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:iconthesugarray:
TheSugarRay Featured By Owner Jun 12, 2013   Writer
Friendsssssssss
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:iconbipscutie:
BipsCutie Featured By Owner Apr 2, 2013
thanks for the faveeE~ ^^
Reply
:iconthesugarray:
TheSugarRay Featured By Owner Apr 2, 2013   Writer
It is a really pretty picture and I would like to be reminded of it. Thank you for posting it.
Reply
:iconunusedemotion:
unusedEmotion Featured By Owner Dec 30, 2012  Student Writer
Thank you so much for the watch!!! It means a lot to me :)
Reply
:icontysonmerrit:
TysonMerrit Featured By Owner Jun 13, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the watch!
deviantART muro drawing Comment Drawing
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:iconthesugarray:
TheSugarRay Featured By Owner Jun 21, 2012   Writer
One of us is earning the watchers they have.
Reply
:icontysonmerrit:
TysonMerrit Featured By Owner Jun 25, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
xD oh really now? haha
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:iconthesugarray:
TheSugarRay Featured By Owner Jun 25, 2012   Writer
Yeah, when is the last time I posted something I wrote?
Oh, the sixteenth. Not bad.
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(1 Reply)
:iconhotheadred:
hotheadred Featured By Owner Jun 12, 2012  Hobbyist Photographer
TheSugarRay huh? Alright.
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