They had a sloppy gait as they approached slowly. Their jaws dislocated showing their torn tongues and blood stained teeth. They moaned as they smelt the blood in the air and ate those who fought pinned on the ground. Skin peeled away from their bones and organs, showing their black hearts. Although they did not beat, you could see that organs were torn, how their blood had turn in to a thick turbid brown and how their stomach slowly digested the flesh that was there own.
Bottle in the Sea
To Whomever Receives This Bottle:
I never expected that I'd be lost and forgotten to the world. I suppose I write this hoping that perhaps you will remember this note sometime after you finish reading it, and in that way my memory lives on. Somehow that's enough. Now listen closely, if you've found this bottle it means that even though it has been tossed to and fro by the waves, perhaps pulled by the undertow and cracked against the rocky reef, it still found you. With that being said, life may break you, but know you are too strong to shatter. Your journey is your own. Do not be afraid if it's perilous. Take heart. Face your worries for they will be too afraid to face you. Ride the currents, do not let them control you. Listen to your heart for it is more than just a beat. The one you seek will find you when you least expect it, and they will give back what your journey has taken away. Your boat, your guide: you chart your course, not anyone else. Take responsibility for your faults, but do not apologize for them: they are what make you human. Dwell not on your mistakes, because your mistakes will sail you on the greatest adventures.
Bond to each other or to material possessions, the choice is yours, but only others can love you back. One is a bond and the other is a road to emptiness and destruction. So learn to love again, learn to trust, and learn how good it feels to be loved and trusted in response. Belong, be unique, be expressive and free, be accepting, be gracious, be open hearted and full of soul. Then pour it out in community events, whatever makes your neighbourhood special and joyful. Feel the music, let it in. Be a part of the sort of party everyone feels welcome in.
The coffee table was concrete with sand embedded in the top. It always reminded her of LA, the city and the beach. She loved it for not being made from a tree, for having such boldness in simple industrial artistry. The table had never been a part of a rainforest, never put down deep roots or stretched up toward the sunny rays, and so she felt that it was a green choice. If she wanted to see wood she'd step outside, see one that was living instead of the varnished slabs generations have sought such empty status in.
I feel this blackness come over me. Like a blanket, but not a blanket of warmth but a blanket of coldness making me shiver. But somehow it's making my eyes feel heavier and heavier. I finally close my eyes finally sending me into a dreamless sleep.
The politician tapped into both their linguistically wired biases (word associations) and thus their brain chemistry to take control of them. For generations, and in recent years quite viciously, the population had been programmed to hate the "appropriate" people, to become colder, more emotionally indifferent, more selfish and atomised. Phrases with words such as "greatest" or "best" were preferred, anything that portrayed them as glorious winners, he assumed that is all it would take for them to forget how many were hungry, poor and struggling to survive and vote for him as "persuaded."
Imagination is painful and tiresome. The ability to create your own world or scenarios which will never happen; can make you fell like collapsing to the ground. The ability to make yourself so happy only to snapped out of you trance by the slightest movement. The pain you can cause yourself just by reminiscing. Your imagination has the ability to mess with your flashbacks making them feel even more horrendous then the true story. So, if you could switch it off. Would you?
We cry for the child of the streets, turned to chemicals for the feelings they should have had from real hugs, real love, real nurture. We cry for those trapped in the cycle from production to distribution, either there because they need the money to survive or have become addicted to power and adrenaline. We cry for the officers caught in the charade that is its law enforcement, just enough done to persuade the public that the bought politicians are actually fighting what has become so very lucrative for the corrupt. And the answers to this war on drugs will never be guns or violence, but to provide the hugs and nurture our children need so they never seek this chemical version of what they imagine real love feels like. This is why all of our faiths and our secular humanitarians speak of love as our answer, because it is.
Self respect has been a long time coming. Perhaps I was waiting for another to grant it to me, to see that I was respected so that I could mirror it back. Perhaps because my trust was so shattered I wasn't respecting others, and so they could not mirror it back. But I think the reason is more that I was respected, that I was respecting others, yet it only settled at the superficial level, at the mask of coping with society. I think that's what happens when you get the message that to a great many people you are meat instead of a person with intelligence and soul to meet. For without full trust, how can we accept the love of others, trust is foundational to love. I think the real path out of the mess, the way back to self respect, or to discover it for the first time, was to trust myself and rely on myself. I know that in this era the rugged individual is critiqued for not being a team player, but it's not so simple. By being self sufficient you learn self reliance, and self trust. You become your own back up plan rather than relying on others. Then, from this tiny seed of trust of the self, comes respect of the self. From there you can love yourself, from there you can start to have real friendships, real relationships and become a person who can thrive in a community, one who helps others. So this is the irony I lived... that to have proper relationships again, the route is via a solitude that isn't easy at all, something that's tough to survive. Then, when you have it, that holy grail of independence, you then need the strength to give it all up in the name of love and choose vulnerability again... removing your armour.
I started pedaling, inching toward my destination and enjoying the newly cool air. It was a lovely day, the first of all the days of spring, with crocuses and daisies in the neighbors garden, and white asters blooming all around. I didn't simply like nature, but rather I loved it. The trees and the flowers and the animals who lasted all around. Imagining all of nature destroyed would be like leaving my soul gasping for breath.
From copyright to “right to copy” - my own personal work on Descriptionari (not the work of others, and excluding samples from my fiction title, “Darwin’s Ghost") is now copyright free to enable young creative writers to grow naturally. Learning is “observe, imitate, practice, master” and as such some copying is vital to development.
I am particularly thinking of the many young writers of social platforms such as Wattpad, and this I feel is the best thing for their development, especially with Wattpad moving toward being a publisher.
That said, do respect the copyright of others and acknowledging myself as the source of my writing is encouraged and appreciated-
Young writers may copy and paste -
“Some writing is borrowed with permission of Angela Abraham, 'Daisy' of www.descriptionari.com”
He looked at me and smiled. I nodded in acknowledgement, my head against the doorframe and my arms folded.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m in a bad mood”.
I didn’t look at him to see his reaction; frankly I didn’t care. But then I felt him move closer and pick something out of my hair, sliding it down the strand slowly and carefully. I didn’t know what it was, possibly blossom; it was early spring. But in that moment I suddenly felt different, it was a sensitive act. Normally he or any other boy would grunt, “You’ve got something in your hair”.
This was different; it was an attentive side I hadn’t seen before.