AnnaGladue

When I was little, it use to amaze me how colors were made. In art class I would sit and mix paint because blue and red didn't stay the same when they fell in love. Every single color found its match and danced beautifully as I swirled them together. Black and white were my favorites. I'd pour the creamy paint into a bowl and watch as black and white swirls, turned into grey swirls and owned the container holding it captive. Grey was amazing to me. Because black and white are nothing alike, and grey is in the middle. Black is dark and scary and demanding. And white is graceful, and trusting, and clean. Grey is nothing. Grey is bland. And safe

Coming Back from Combat: A Writer’s Guide to Combat Related Psychological Illness in Fiction The aim of this guide is simple: plenty of people want to write about war, to explore it, to understand it and understand soldiers they know who are in it or have come from it. But, often times putting the aftermath, the pain, and the psychological impact war has on the mind into words is difficult to do well. This guide exists to help fiction writers accurately portray psychological disorders in their work, because the people who suffer from these disorders and their loved ones deserve honesty and do not deserve to be misrepresented. The guid

Over the Hills and Far Away, Alyssa Lies to her friends, says the bruise is from a game: she was the Hero with all the Courage, her younger brother the victim. Her friends, with their little-kid imagination, ask what it feels like to fly. Her answer is that it feels Much Like Falling, but Better because you're saving someone. That night In The Dark though, she wishes she could be Anywhere But Here, and bring her brother with her, so they both could be Fully Alive and not have to say I'm Sorry for things they didn't do. *** Alyssa stayed, and grew up, Fly(ing) Away with her brother on her Broken Wings and becoming a Penholder, creating Be

Black cloak- White fingers- Sharp sickle- Horns like a goat- Repeat, repeat, repeat… They say that sleep is the cousin of death, So I pray before I close my eyes as if this inhale shall be my last breath, Soon my mind is nothing, A windowless space of volume With infinite potential to be something, Here and now are but veils, Two halves of different coins that both display tails… Rainbow colored cloak- Crystalline fingers- Jeweled scepter- Horns that look like thorns- Brilliant and beautiful, Is the cousin of death, A perpetual weaver of the realm of dreams… For Sleep is the Creator and we are but his children, Abstrac