The ghost’s silver forms were a mat of scars, cut on cut on cut. Their skin must have been hyde thick in life. All that pain with a hundred fold the effort to heal than to slice. With grace, heads raised, they would glide to us each night and sing. Each song was an ocean of tears transcending into sound. At first it all seemed so pointless, scarred they came and scarred they left. But then, months into their visitations we saw it, after each song a scar would vanish. One day they will sing their last; one day they will be free.
As living shadows the bats swooped, cooly bathed within guardian rock. They chirped and played, wings stretched wide, these masters of the night. Their family, thousands strong, heeded twilight’s call. As armour-less knights, the cold currents they rode as eagles of the night.
I have fought these long years in efforts I pray are not in vain. It is my duty to keep you safe. In that I must either win or give my life to its cause. Yet as there is no pride in cowardice, there is nothing gained by the foolhardy. And so, in my autumnal years, even as winter calls, I stand on guard for thee. Weep not for my struggle, yet be warmed by my love. And for the pain I could not save you from, let me have my tears.
"Adjective and noun associations are worthy of our consideration because by careful linkage of words such as 'black' with strong emotionally positive words (such as in 'black heavens' and 'noble black night') we can start to program subconscious bias from the brain by creating a background neurochemistry that is more positive. This keeps the prefrontal cortex more fully operational and encourages more empathy in both thoughts and behaviours. Thus society develops better through their own choices and evolves. This is part of social evolution and this kind of awareness in writers is essential."
The smell of the drains was a Gollum hand, reaching up my nose to rattle my brain. It was as if its fingertips had made craters in my grey-matter, bruising it for no other reason than a cold and petty thrill. How could it? Foul though was, it’s just a stink. Somewhere, behind the closed and double-locked doors of my memories, a darkness stirred. PTSD erased my memories, but whatever happened, it stank this same way.
"It turns out, as obviousness would have it, that our brains (especially those of Stan Lee and Jack Kirby in this case) have been teaching us neurology through comic books and the movies that have come from them."
Full article linked to from my profile, click "abraham" below, awesome!!
The fairies brought colours to the clouds as if they were spring flowers in a meadow. How they sang! Oh, their songs! They came to our ears as if they were a month of rest, a ballroom dance and a feast for the soul. Only the fairies can make you feel this way, you see. Only they! The air around them was so sweet it could be the icing upon a grand cake, the aroma brought cherry blossoms to the imagination. Then, upon seeing our approach they gathered around to hear tell of our adventures.
"For writers in the next half century and beyond, a comprehension of how creative writing, neurology, biology and our environment interact will be essential for a successful career."
- a link to the full article is in my bio and on the Descriptionari "About" page.
- you can email me using either AngelaCarolineAbraham@gmail.com or AngelaDescriptionari@outlook.com for a quote on tutoring and/or editing services.
Much love!!!
Angela Abraham (Daisy)
There upon the shore, as gentle waves pooled around our feet, we told one another of how we’d come to wander those briny sands. In time, as our words flowed, so did the incoming tide bathe our hands. Heart beats, wave beats, sighs that stretched to the blur of sky and sea: stories so often yawn out this way. When there is no hurry, no clock of man, nor fear of brutalist lens, the unspooling comes as naturally as the breeze.