Writers Are Parents
K.M Allan is a writer I have been following since before she became that beautiful mistress of words; an author. Time and time again I have been inspired by her tried and true writing tips. So, when she published her first book, The Beginning, I had to read it, if only to see her writing techniques in action.
A gentleman but not a gentleman was what Edward always was, given the 'no smoking' signs pasted to the ghastly lavender walls.
E is for Epic . . .
She slides into the silk, the maid's fingers on the buttons. Hundreds of buttons . . .
She is that which never wavers, silent in the face of bloodshed, smiling in the face of the storm. She is loyalty; forever inspiring.
She came from the woods, her hair deserving of jewels and her face as sad as a dying tulip.
"Is it true you do not spank me because I am blind?"
Father said nothing. Only his breathing sounded as Miles' heart sank. It was true, after all. It was not love; it was because he was blind. Disabled. Different.
M is for Music . . .
One is cursed. The other is not. Is it staff or man?
Virgin vaguely recalled exchanging a rake for his fishing pole.
Pa folded his arms as Virgin's shoulders slumped.
He was ten years old and already running from the blaze on the horizon where his parents and siblings, servants and friends burned in the flames.
The place smelled of the smell of sadness; salt mixed with ashes and dead rose petals. A cloak of tragedy settled over all those who entered to walk the paths between the burial plots.
They hold me prisoner deep within the earth. It is a world of death and hate.
I miss the sun. Here in these caverns there is only darkness. Even my thoughts are not my own.
The nursery fell quiet as the children stopped playing to listen to his answer. Miles looked in the direction of the governess's voice. "I want my mother."
A sliver of hope in the eyes of dead men.
