A couple of my friends are synesthetes, which means that they experience reactions from more than one sense from the same stimulus. For example, letters and numbers might have colors, or names might have a flavor. I remember one saying that lockers tasted like chicken nuggets. Of course, she hadn't actually licked the lockers, and I guarantee that they wouldn't taste like fried chicken.
Synesthesia in Writing
The term synesthesia can also apply to a writing technique, in which the writer uses words in a figurative way to evoke reader responses from multiple senses.
We use this technique without realizing it on a regular basis.
If you've ever talked about cool colors, loud wallpaper, or bitter cold, then you've used synesthesia in your language.
Authors Who Have Used Synesthesia
Multiple authors have used synesthesia in their writing. Dante used it in his Divine Comedy when he writes about “the region where the sun is silent”. Clearly the sun does not make noise, but the idea of the sun being silent uses the sense of hearing to evoke a sense of despair.
Keats, Shakespeare, Emily Dickinson, and Robert Frost also use synesthesia in their writing to blend senses and bring out new reactions from their readers. Vladimir Nabokov, the celebrated author of Lolita, was interviewed by the BBC in 1962, and said this about his synesthesia:
The long “a” of the English alphabet has for me the tint of weathered wood, but a French “a” evokes polished ebony.
Throwing synesthesia into your writing can lend a deeper meaning to your words, and it can connect your reader to your prose in a way that is creative and unique, leaving a lasting impression.
More resources:
Are you a synesthete?
PRACTICE
Spend fifteen minutes writing a nature scene, using synesthesia to add new sensory layers in your description.
Post your practice in the comments section and check out what other writers are posting.
I like the sound of your idea. My background is in psychology. Synesthesia is often associated with superior memory. It makes logical sense that evoking it would create a more memorable.
Makes sense. I associate new words with images to memorize them, or make up funny rhymes. That methodology got me through Microbiology with flying colors.
Really enjoyed this post. Synethesia is something that has been fascinating to me and in writing for many years. Here is something I’m working on that incorporates Syn. It’s a poem but it’s still a nature scene:
I see the wind
It follows me by night
The darkness looms even in light
Sinking, screaming into me
A breath, a fear, it’s death
It doesn’t whisper, it shouts
Silently from the inside to the out of me
And no one can hear, no one can see
This battle between
My battle unseen.
I really liked your poem, Stacey! Great use of the synethesia, it’s obvious you’ve played with the technique before. Just the two first lines, about the wind following the narrator at night, gave me goosebumps. It really sets a mood!
Thanks Jackie! =)
I love the sound of the last two lines.
Thank you!
I love the last two lines and the way they sound.
Waiting for him was worse than the way he left. The boiling scream of my name, the sharp edge in his eyes when he was taken away; all that could have been easily forgotten if the next day he had been here in our woods like promised. But now I’m alone under the weeping willow and each vein of my body is trembling in a loud racket. To mock me, the whole forest is quiet.
I know this place by heart. I know that usually the birds sing their warm tunes
as they heap over my head. That the sun flows like a wave through the branches,
whooshes the worries away with its dim scent of lemon. Even the leaves used to giggle
under my bare feet every time Heath and I ran along the path. Where did all
that energy go?
No it’s still here. The forest is as alive as it always was and it knows too well that
Heath isn’t coming back. Because even if I hate to admit it: this bleak silence
is the same that sticks on one’s skin during a funeral
“Sun . . . whooshes the worries away with its dim scent of lemon.” “leaves used to giggle” “silence . . .that sticks to one’s skin” These are great examples!
And you get fifty extra points in my book for not putting an apostrophe in “its”!
Ahah thanks, I do my best!
Very powerful piece. “To mock me, the whole forest is quiet.” You took me there with that sentence. Beautiful.
Thank you! I like to think that our environment is always very aware of the situation. Like when I moved out of my first house, I’m telling you the doors cried. hihi
dim lemon scent of the sun-that smell in summer that just embraces the outdoors and tracks you through the grass. Wonderful.
Interesting angle you add here, Elise. Thank you 🙂
I liked the “sharp edges in his eyes”. I also loved the ending. As I read “No, It’s still here. The forest is as alive as it always was… ” I wanted to insert the words “even if Heath is not.”
Only good writing does that to me.
That’s nice to hear, thanks very much!
A fun, and useful, exercise is making columns with nouns in the first column, then adding ‘feels’, colors, tastes, and sounds in the next columns. You can add them at random as you think of them and then mix and match them to come up with interesting combinations. i am often amazed at the unconscious connections that are there.
Wow, thanks for this interesting suggestion. 🙂
Great idea!
The musician plays a distasteful tune.
The blacksmith tastes perfection.
The soldier sleeps to the sound of boredom.
Don’t know if I did it right.
Sound like a fun exercise. I’m going to try it.
Adelaide
I am borrowing your idea for writer’s guild. It is brilliant.
I sat on the soft green grass. The warm breeze blowing though the quiet forest. I stared at the trees. Tall, short, fat, skinny but they were all trees except one the one I was under it was a beautiful weeping willow. Its leaves spun in the wind like a dancers skirt as she spun. The noise of the woods was carried by the wind pushing it towards my ears.
The clear blue sky was spotless without a cloud. The summer sun was quiet yet not forgotten as it beat down on my back. I walked though tall grass scratching my sides like a new shirt. The smell of it was intoxicating.
I walked closer to the lake the water gleamed like a new glass. I stared at my reflection in the lake like a mirror. The blue water turned to a inky black as I stared down deeper. I walked in the cool water slipping on my legs then my waist and finally my neck. I let the water drag me down like a rag doll. Soon I was just part of the lake.
Beautiful: ‘it’s leaves spun in the wind like a dancers skirt’ I don’t think you need the ‘as she spun’. The previous words say it all. Love this, so vivid, poetic. Thanks for sharing 🙂
Thanks.
You could also do things like “I walked through tall grass rasping hoarsely against my sides” which involves both the sense of touch (the grass against your sides) and hearing (like a very scratchy voice). That (I think!) would be an example of the synesthesia Liz is talking about.
But your writing is lovely!
Thanks I had a little writers block.
I really like the imagery of a dancers skirt. It created the picture perfectly in my mind. I also really like your ending..”Soon I was just part of the lake.”
Thanks so much.
Chloee, you did an amazing job on this! You slowed things down with your choice of words, essentially emulating the laziness of the summer with your sentence structure. Grass scratching like a new shirt-never thought of that, but definitely true. Especially lace shirts. Ugg, those things drive me insane!
Ugh tell me about it. 🙂 Thanks a lot for your words.
Agree with John’s suggestion below — the synesthesia is weak in this example. Description isn’t synesthesia, you really have to mix it up. Make the imagery and sensual references stronger.
The sentence structure is also too monotonous (most sentences start with the main subject then verb), and the verb “to be” is far overused (I was, they were, the noise…was, clear blue sky was…, the smell…was).
Okay thanks for the advice.
I enjoyed your imagery on the whole, it effectively took me to a forest by a lake. Your repeated use of ‘like’ pulled me out of the narration a bit. You could try replacing some with commas and see if they still work.
Its leaves spun in the wind like a dancers skirt as she spun.
Its leaves in the wind, a dancers skirt as she spun.
What do you think? (This is my first stab at posting, so feel free to critique my critique)
Okay thanks a lot great tips.
The sun is muzzled by the silver-blue-grey snow-clouds that quell its blare to a miniature squeak; not even a lone school-kid, scampering for the bus-stop, braves the stiletto wind out of the howling north. The cold tears screaming wounds in any attempted complacency; the heat inside my rooms calls out to me from half a mile away.
My intentions do a U-turn. My body follows suit. I head for home.
”My intentions do a U-turn” = Brilliant
Thanks, Jackie!
Wow, John: ‘stiletto wind’. That’s one mean wind. I don’t think I’d be braving that kind of weather either. I’d be heading for home too! 🙂
😀
“Stiletto wind” I know EXACTLY what that feels like. I love this description! Put me right there in a place feeling its piercing blow.
Thank you Stacey!
I was going to write out my favorite sentence from here, but then I couldn’t decide. I like them all. How could you make things so difficult for me;)
Ha! Thank you so much Elise!
Elegance captured in so few words.
Hi, James! Thank you very much! 🙂
Okay John, since everyone here is gushing about your post, I’ll take direction from it and take that U-turn and offer some constructive criticism. 🙂
As I commented to Chloee down below, the verb “to be” can be a literary killer. “The sun is muzzled…” already I’m stopping, not sure if I want to go on. These four words tell me I’m about to fall into the passive voice. Then you’ve got two sets of hyphenated words which I trample all over because my mind needs to stop and untangle the adjectives.
End result: Your first sentence flies out of the gate a bit clumsily, halting with those first four words when it really wants to take off at a gallop. Try getting rid of that semi-colon and doing two sentences or drawing a more powerful parallel between the sun and the wind.
I do like “blare to a miniature squeak” and the stiletto wind. The “U-turn” is too cliche, I’d find another image or expression.
All good points! Rubbing my chewed @$$ and trying again:
Blue-grey clouds ponderous with unfallen snow muzzle the sun and quell its expansive blare to a squeak so tinny that not even one school-kid braves the stiletto wind out of the howling north. The cold claws screaming wounds into any attempted complacency, and amplifies the calling of the heat in my rooms from a half-mile away.
My intentions turn censoriously on themselves and, executing a wincing turnabout, I head for home.
Thank you for the much-needed takedown!
Haha, great attitude. But it’s no takedown. It’s love, just a bit rough at the edges. Praise is great but you need to soar.
Much better, but way too many adjectives. “Ponderous” is such a ponderous word, do you really need it? You don’t need to tell me the clouds pregnant with snow are blue-grey, if I don’t know what snow clouds look like, boy…
How about “Giants hung in the sky, bellies cracking with unfallen snow, muzzling the sun’s blare to a squeak so tinny no school-bound soul braved the stiletto wind out of the howling north.” (I assume the whole school thing is important here??)
Not suggesting this is the holy grail, just a way to play with the imagery. Clouds are sooooo overused, why not personify them and turn them into monstrous creatures ruling the sky that even the sun cannot fight.
I’d still hunt down more adjectives.
I’m still with you, just still cogitatin’ . . .
I think I like “Giants hung in the sky, bellies low with unfallen snow [I like the internal rhyme],muzzling the sun’s blare to a squeak so tinny no school-bound soul etc.” (Yes the school thing is important because in the area I visualize here, I do usually see the kids sprinting for the bus of a morning.)
You’re right about the clouds, the personification is much better.
Late here too, but that’s what literature does to a person. Keep at it, great writing takes work. “Bellies low…” works too, nice rhyme.
Too many adjectives.
Sleep well my scribe.
Love “stiletto wind”! The image of your words is great, really conjures up emotion.
Thank you, Beck!
Hi John, I have just read through the ‘critique conversation’ between yourself and Birgitte. I found it very useful, and thoroughly enjoyed the literary integrity and willingness you both demonstrated to work as masters in the written word. And the small piece really did benefit.
So this is to say Thanks for the. Lesson. 🙂
Doubt that I deserve the designation of “master” quite yet, :). But Bergette certainly does. We’re all learning together, and isn’t that what it’s all about? I think so. Glad the lesson was of benefit to you!
An orchestral piece is floating over to me on the summer’s breeze. I cannot make sense of the notes. They seem random, disordered. My ears pick out a bird singing here, a squirrel scampering there, and elsewhere, a tinkling ray of sunshine. Another note turns into the rustling of a leaf, the snapping of a twig. Further in, a piano mimics the melody of fresh spring rain, after a storm has subsided.
My mind cannot form a pattern. But I persevere, letting every visual impression wash over me, until they knit together. They form a symphony, a garden of full of blossoming flowers, guarded by tall oaks. A chorus of exotic birds chant overhead. I am indeed in paradise!
“a tinkling ray of sunshine” and “visual impression[s] . . . form a symphony” are great examples of synesthesia!
Thanks John. I think this piece could potentially reflect back on itself, like a hall of mirrors, with nature imitating music, leading to music that imitates nature 🙂
Hey, that’s good! 🙂
I love your musical scenes!
It was a quiet morning. The kind of quiet that sneaks softly across the plain and settles in over the hills, enveloping everything in a thick blanket of silence. Even the light came through the trees in a whisper; its paleness only seeming to enhance the absolute calm. I wish I had more mornings like this.
I filled my lungs with the sweet air, grateful for these stolen moments away from the city. Away from the stinking heat that beat down on your sense as you hurried through the streets, every building towering, looming, breathing down your neck with harsh, metal creaks and hot, poisonous breath.
I shook my head quickly to chase the unbidden memories away, easing my white-knuckled grip on the railing. My peace was scuttling away too soon, chasing the hushed morning light back over the hills and dragging such a brightness behind it. It came screeching through the trees and trying to pry its way through my fast-shut eyes, the grating feeling of it making my spine shudder.
Always. Morning’s softness was always gone too soon.
“Breathing down your neck with harsh, metal creaks and hot, poisonous breath.” This is an amazing description. It really created a feel of a hot sinister city looming down over me. =) I also really liked the last sentence of the first paragraph. It was simple, poignant, grounded and honest.
I really enjoyed your descriptions. Excellent verbs. You exchanged the paleness of morning for the harsh metallic cheesegrater of getting up.
I have mild synethesia. Numbers are just numbers to me, but I associate many words with a larger canvas.Some words paint a one or two tone canvas, but several evoke an entire scene. My current WIP is entirely based off an unusual Jewish name I happened to read somewhere. Based on that name, I painted a character and the world she lives in.Anyway, back to the prompt!
He looked at me in a nutmeggy sort of way. I swirled my tongue around in my mouth, unsure if I liked the mingling earthiness and spiciness of his eyes. He did not stop looking at me, but I decided that I had tasted enough. The spiciness relinquished to an astringency that left my mouth all cottony and unhappy.
I caught my picnic blanket around my shoulders like Poseidon’s cloak and slipped deep into the placid grassy knoll beneath the surface of the park. The grasses, intermingled like tangled seaweed, softly whispered secrets told to them by dandelion wisps waiting to take flight to the surface. Bubbles blown my way by a fairy-quiet girl drifted around me. One bubble hovered about me, an opalescent crystal ball reflecting my seclusion. With a purple sigh, the bubble popped.
A shy breeze dimpled across the grass, all blushes and apologies. He did not blow me another park view but rather Sr. Nutmeg. I held my breath as he plunged deep into the grass beside me, sending a flurry of electric yellow jolts up my spine. I could no longer avoid eye contact, so I looked back at him. His lips had changed. Gone was the spicy Moroccan flavor. He held a cordial cherry expression, just dripping with maraschino and thick syrup.
A moldy green feeling crept over my stomach, and I wondered if maybe I had mistaken the actual grass for a seaweed salad and eaten it. Whatever look I returned must have reeked of dramamine that wouldn’t stay down, because he edged away from me. “Grey day?” he asked.
“Mauve,” I replied.
“Right,” he replied. “Those days always confuse me. I am left wondering why at the end of the day.”
I felt the welt-red prickles of confusion creeping over my face and neck like an army of fire ants. “How did you know?” I whispered.
“Lipstick,” he replied, closing his eyes and playing soft piano on the virgin pinkness of the wind. “Mauve is a strange color for lipstick, don’t you think? I am always left wondering why.”
“Coral lipstick is worse,” I blurted out.
He opened his eyes. The nutmeg and maraschino were gone, chased away by chocolate and chili pepper. The kind of spicy that I like. “Coral isn’t confusing,” he said. “I consider mauve to be a color that some women mistake to look good. But there is no mistaking coral. Coral screams to be looked at and shocked over.”
The cool stillness of the knoll sent dozens of goosebumps up both our arms. He moved from dreaming about coral to examining my face in a smooth, luxurious way. “But today is not a mauve day or a coral day,” he said. “Today is the faint pink of jadeite.”
Splendid and tasty. I loved the lemonade moments:
* He held a cordial cherry expression, just dripping with maraschino and thick syrup.
* He opened his eyes. The nutmeg and maraschino were gone, chased away by chocolate and chili pepper.
* With a purple sigh, the bubble popped.
*A shy breeze dimpled across the grass, all blushes and apologies.
I was hungry when I wrote this, so most of my descriptions came out as food. I realized after I posted it that it would be total overload to stick all this in one scene, but if I spread it across a bunch of chapters, it would would better. Glad you liked the lemonade.
Overload. Yes. We are here to practice though. So vomiting synesthesia is a good practice 🙂
“Whatever look I returned must have reeked of dramamine that wouldn’t stay down…”
My favorite line for sure!
The air was still and quiet. Everything in the world seemed to be holding its breath at the threat of the coming snow. Temperatures had warmed up, as if something, somewhere, was brave enough to poke its head out of its hole in an attempt to gather food or to simply catch a breath of fresh air. Fresh air after being trapped in stale, cold dirt holes and dens for weeks.
I had come out that afternoon to look at the tree trunks that had been fell earlier in the fall. It was warm enough for me to chunk those old bones into logs that I could use to heat my house in the coming cold snap. Something strange hung in the air, foreboding and ominous.
Physical work usually brought comfort. There had always been peace in the sweat of hard work, but this time it was strangely uncomfortable. Groundhog day had come and passed. Shadow chasing had not ever been a matter of seasonal importance to me. I had always looked for the red robin to come back as my sign for spring.
You see, robins are messengers that spring is afoot and that new life is about to come forth. A time of celebration is at hand, indeed, when the robins are seen. Winter has retreated with more certainty than any groundhog could ever tell us. Certainly the robin is a warm and welcome thing to see in any story near the end.
As I pick up and stack the pieces of logs that now lay about the ground as so many scattered bones, there is a sudden and heavy, loud flashing of wings followed closely by branches complaining and straining under considerable weight. Looking around I find the newcomers to my yard. I find them due to the light glinting off of feathers. Oily black feathers reflecting white light as if from the edges of long scythe-like blades.
A chill, a new chill ran down my spine as I took stock of the coal black eyes of the coal black birds now watching me. I could feel those eyes, devoid of feeling, piercing into my soul as those two birds, my silent companions, watched me.
“What is it you two know that I should?” I asked them, not expecting an answer. Recalling the fields of the dead in Kosovo, again I asked my two dark messengers, “What can you see coming that my stocking up heating wood cannot prepare me for? Who is coming to visit?” Still, expecting no answer, I looked to the two. Nothing, no answer from those two … pffft, they’re birds, just birds, right?
Right?
A pause between storms. An anemic sun envelops the landscape
promising nothing. The wind scolds as it whips through the pines speaking
obscenities. There is no escape from this callous winter, this pitiless cold. I
look for signs of spring but see only blue white days and sub-zero nights for
another month.
dinner by the fire
a taste of summer
in the burnt hotdog
Adelaide
Anemic Sun. Enveloped landscape. Scolding wind and swearing pines.
Delicious! Thank you.
And, I thank you. I think I might have gone overboard a bit. There is that tendency with synesthesia, similes and metaphors. Too much of either one
could easily have the reader shaking his head and saying, “get on with the story.”
Adelaide
This is a practice page, so we can go overboard a little surely!
The sting of staccato rain drops pass unnoticed on my face. The winds wail through the trees like a widowed wife. A single leaf scrapes across the stone pavement. Death leaves a metallic and salty taste in my mouth. My teeth screech together. Death tastes just like blood.
The last three sentences, about death, are really good . . . they would be great as a character faces mortal danger, or experiences actual death IMO.
First sentence: perhaps “passes”? that sense of the verb would agree with the subject (“sting”).
Excellent sensory images!
Staccato suggests sound because of music, at least to me. I think death tasting like blood would also pass, besides the fact I made a logical connection evident.
Thank John. It is nice to hear from you again. Wouldn’t that pass? I didn’t hear anything…
You may be right! And these all do appeal to more than one sense, as with staccato, wail, and scrapes, which I actually missed in my reading of it. Thanks for keeping me on my toes!
I live the bleak picture of death you paint with your words, but in such human and tangible terms.
Thank you. I love how much can be accomplished with only a few sentences.
The countryside. Tanba thought that moving me here would heal me. I know he meant well. But how can I enjoy the mountains when my daughter cannot breathe?
By most other people’s standards, it is a beautiful day. The sky is the colour of the disinfectant they use in the hospital’s bathroom, the sun as bright as the lights in the operating theatre. But for me it as as though nature herself wishes to remind me of the things I may have which Kaoru cannot. The melody the breeze whispers on my skin is a melody she cannot hear, for in the ventilator it is warm and draftless. The clouds drifting across the sky, clouds light and fresh as cream, breathe an air that her lungs cannot.
But Tanba insisted that I go for a walk, and so I will.
When Masataka was alive, he and I would go on walks like this. With neither plan nor destination, we’d simply slip out of our homes, choose a direction and walk. Walk for as long as we wanted, walk until the path ended, then we’d choose another direction and walk again. I never knew where he found time for these walks, but the more hectic his work became, the more he insisted on our walks. He called them his way of preserving some of the unknown – some wilderness – in a society that increasingly prized only order.
Masataka was that kind of person. I only wish I could find the same freedom in an unplanned walk to nowhere as he did.
I like your use of the hospital decor and atmosphere to describe the day. It shows where your thoughts are on your child. Comparing the sun and the sky to golden orbs and saphires, for example, would have been out of of place considering the tone of the piece.
Adelaide
Hi Adelaide, thanks for your feedback. I deliberately chose two settings which most people wouldn’t associate with each other to push myself to come up with more creative descriptions, so I’m glad the hospital metaphors worked for you!
The morning sun strode noisily over the slumb’rous town, shaking me out of my Sunday-morning hang over. Brushing aside the drawn curtains, it stabbed me with needle rays, vaporising the lingering alcohol fumes.
The birds outside, until a few minutes a vibrant multitude, cowered among the oak tree’s silent branches. I blinked a What-Now? with one lazy eye, and crept deeper under the protesting bedclothes. .
A sun that strides, stabs with needles and vapourises while bedclothes protest.
Cool.
OK. Just a 10 minute try hard play with words. Here we go…
“It’s buried deep in the great tiara of the sky where Vivaldi sings the seasons of the universe and the central star melts tangerine dreams into heaven.”
She continued her walk through the citrus bite of understorey and paused at the base of grandmother Sheoak.
“And even on this day we see their barking trunks and ballerina limbs listen to the purr of the wind, take note of the score, and create their own symphony .”
Stacey looked up through the bangle of branches as they swooped pliés and pirouettes.
She silver moon smiled .
“This Lapis waltz rotates for us all a steady course. We grip on steely knuckled yet she invites us always to dance.”
That is beautiful to read! I’m hardly a critic, though, as I’m just a newbie to this thing called professional writin, but have been a ‘writer’ all my life!
Really does flow, with beautiful descriptive’s!!
Peace and light.
Thanks LucyLoosie. Very kind of you.
I’m of the same ilk. A writer all my life. My decision to share is recent. And my training/professional knowledge of creative writing is nil.
So this is a good place to be. Useful and friendly feedback and critique.
Peace
The ancient and fertile floor of the mighty forest, at this time of year, is not the warm and squelchy-wet terrain, like that, of parts of the boggy woodland, during the summer time. It is frozen. Hard like plywood, seemingly lay over a gaping abyss, by the the sound’s of my feet landing upon it, with my welly-booted, three-sock-ed, ice-cube tootsies! Unforgiving, as it is, in it’s dry-hardened state, of any young sapling’s that may have taken up root’s, in it’s nitrogen-rich soil, during the spring of the previous year! Any young sproutling that HAS managed to stay hidden away, unseen, under a fresh-green sprightly sprig of fern, and remained, undevoured, by one of the forest’s fervant, herbivore, inhabitant’s, during the storage, forraging, autumn months, that is!
The air was still and quiet. Everything
in the world seemed to be holding its breath at the threat of the
coming snow. Temperatures had warmed up, as if something, somewhere,
was brave enough to poke its head out of its hole in an attempt to
gather food or to simply catch a breath of fresh air. Fresh air after
being trapped in stale, cold dirt holes and dens for weeks.
I had come out that afternoon to look
at the tree trunks that had been fell earlier in the fall. It was
warm enough for me to chunk those old bones into logs that I could
use to heat my house in the coming cold snap. Something strange hung
in the air, foreboding and ominous.
Physical work usually brought comfort.
There had always been peace in the sweat of hard work, but this time
it was strangely uncomfortable. Groundhog day had come and passed.
Shadow chasing had not ever been a matter of seasonal importance to
me. I had always looked for the red robin to come back as my sign for
spring.
You see, robins are messengers that
spring is afoot and that new life is about to come forth. A time of
celebration is at hand, indeed, when the robins are seen. Winter has
retreated with more certainty than any groundhog could ever tell us.
Certainly the robin is a warm and welcome thing to see in any story
near the end.
As I pick up and stack the pieces of
logs that now lay about the ground as so many scattered bones, there
is a sudden and heavy, loud flashing of wings followed closely by
branches complaining and straining under considerable weight. Looking
around I find the newcomers to my yard. I find them due to the light
glinting off of feathers. Oily black feathers reflecting white light
as if from the edges of long scythe-like blades.
A chill, a new chill ran down my spine
as I took stock of the coal black eyes of the coal black birds now
watching me. I could feel those eyes, devoid of feeling, piercing
into my soul as those two birds, my silent companions, watched me.
“What is it you two know that I
should?” I asked them, not expecting an answer. Recalling the
fields of the dead in Kosovo, again I asked my two dark messengers,
“What can you see coming that my stocking up heating wood cannot
prepare me for? Who is coming to visit?” Still, expecting no
answer, I looked to the two. Nothing, no answer from those two …
pffft, they’re birds, just birds, right?
Right?
Loved this post. I’ll give it a try!
***
Lightning bolts stabbed the sky with malice causing clouds to quiver and shake. In their hurry to get away cumulus and nimbus tumble and trip, falling in a panic over each other, creating a ruckus. The air sizzled hot as bolt after bolt flung itself downward piercing the angry clouds. Melancholy tears beat the world’s breast in a relentless torrent of grief, painting in blue and black, the earth bellow.
This was done well. Stabbing lightning blots, quivering clouds, sizzling air, angry clouds.
I feel there were some words you could cut to make it more powerful:
– with Malice
– choose between quiver and shake, tumble and trip.
Good stuff, very inspirational.
Thanks, good suggestions James.
The moon winks at me as its soft glow flirts with my upturned face. Under its spell, everything erect unfurls a flag of sexy shadow and succumbs to a seductive dance as the wind whispers over bare branches and through skimpy foilage. The lamp posts blush in shame as their manufactured light is diluted in the brightness. Their frigidity is obvious as they stand stiffly in place.
It is a fun exercise!
The air was damp, the droplets of rain staccato in the way they fell. And if the sorrow taste didn’t come from the rain, then I was sure that it had come from the bitter cold that had silenced the sun.
The sun tasted like barbecued chicken, fresh, warm and tender, sneaking on my skin as I lie on the green grass, only it smells like cool mint, tickling me. I don’t know how much time has passed but the wind soon begins to pick up; it’s starting to howl in my ear, maybe it’s screaming, raging about being lost in the shadow of the sun, forgotten. I sit up, tasting sour milk. I run, smelling the fear rolling off of me. I stop, seeing black, tasting rain. In just a second, I could no longer taste barbecued chicken.
The weeping teal-grey clouds were thunderous above me as I struggled to make my way down the damp, ill-smelling street. The streetlights buzzed with old age with each of my passing steps, but as I set foot into the doors of my building, a wave of sweet warmth washed over me. Home.
The quiet pebbles sleeping, an aroma of tranquility overflowed the atmosphere. The river was in a silent slumber as well, the morning dew softened the scent, and sugar-coated the edges reflecting the dreams of the napping robins. Then they weren’t. One by one, they all started to depart from slumberland and I could see the sudden crescendo fill the air, like a jug that won’t stop pouring.
Embers drifted through the blackened sky; clouds shadowing the the burnt house. The dark taste of smoke lingered in her mouth and the tears burnt her soft cheeks. She ran towards the wreckage, smelling the air try to hold her back; the blood rushed through her veins and the scene was too much. She collapsed, sitting amongst the autumn leaves, staring at her past. Rain began to fall from above and the familiar sound of the heavy drops taunted her nostrils as she lay withering in the darkness. A cold moon emerged from the smoke and the painful thoughts of what could have been filled her fragile head. She was only young, yet she had already tasted natures fury. Life had only just begun, but it was already over for poor Emily…
Sweat was beading down my forehead, and once the saline droplets reached my eyes my field of vision went red with agony. The pain caused the air to explode in a frenzy of pops and fizzles, and I tasted the sudden wave of heat that enveloped me. Once the minuscule droplets had fallen off my face, the cold wind was howling around me once again as I wrapped myself up in my battered coat, tightening and hugging me like an warm embrace. I wondered off once again into the snowy horizon.
Grey-white clouds emerge behind the skyscraper hiding the hushed sun. The tartness present in the air makes my angst gush through my veins. My pace quickens. The pavements smells fishy, as if it were concealing something – something unknown to me.
I held on tightly to the remnants of my chocolate coat. The wind sizzled as it came in contact with my hyper-sensitive skin. Trudging down the street, I revelled in how the moon sang it’s sweet reassuring lullaby’s to me. The tangy cold atmosphere layered itself on every surface. Suddenly, thunder rang loud as it struck every bone in my body. It tasted of the very sorrow I had been trying to escape. I took a bitter breath and used all the power invested in me to run. I ran. The wind howled ear-splittingly at me. As if in a split second, a bolt of sour lightning stabbed the clouds with a malicious force. The world darkened into a crisp black colour. My heart palpitated at a slowly increasing pace as the staccato raindrops drenched me. How was I going to get home?