| Humor Non-Fiction posted March 2, 2021 |
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... and howl, and shriek, and moan, and ...
Let the Wind Whisper Without Me
by Elizabeth Emerald
A Witch of a Wind descended upon us at midnight, shrieking, howling,
Scratch 'em. Such windy accompaniments are trite at best; hyperbolic at worst. (As regards last night's wind, they're understatements.)
I am in awe of poets, and prose writers, who manage to construe fresh imagery in the face of temptation toward the stale.
As for me, whenever a wind, especially one that is metaphorical, threatens to disrupt my story, I grab my cast of characters and run for cover.
Thus concludes the confession of the symbolically-challenged, hopelessly literal-minded, yours truly,
Elizabeth Emerald.
* * * * * *
Given my avowed aversion of the figurative, it might reasonably be inferred from my surname that I am of the leprechaun race.
Not so; I am a faux Emerald, having assumed the moniker when, upon divorcing Green(e), I desired a more vibrant shade.
A Witch of a Wind descended upon us at midnight, shrieking, howling,
Scratch 'em. Such windy accompaniments are trite at best; hyperbolic at worst. (As regards last night's wind, they're understatements.)
I am in awe of poets, and prose writers, who manage to construe fresh imagery in the face of temptation toward the stale.
As for me, whenever a wind, especially one that is metaphorical, threatens to disrupt my story, I grab my cast of characters and run for cover.
Thus concludes the confession of the symbolically-challenged, hopelessly literal-minded, yours truly,
Elizabeth Emerald.
* * * * * *
Given my avowed aversion of the figurative, it might reasonably be inferred from my surname that I am of the leprechaun race.
Not so; I am a faux Emerald, having assumed the moniker when, upon divorcing Green(e), I desired a more vibrant shade.
Scratch 'em. Such windy accompaniments are trite at best; hyperbolic at worst. (As regards last night's wind, they're understatements.)
I am in awe of poets, and prose writers, who manage to construe fresh imagery in the face of temptation toward the stale.
As for me, whenever a wind, especially one that is metaphorical, threatens to disrupt my story, I grab my cast of characters and run for cover.
Thus concludes the confession of the symbolically-challenged, hopelessly literal-minded, yours truly,
Elizabeth Emerald.
* * * * * *
Given my avowed aversion of the figurative, it might reasonably be inferred from my surname that I am of the leprechaun race.
Not so; I am a faux Emerald, having assumed the moniker when, upon divorcing Green(e), I desired a more vibrant shade.
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