Vivid imagery and descriptions in a story will remain in your mind long after reading. While dialogues make a statement to ignite your understanding, descriptive language makes a story come alive to leave a lasting impression. A story should feature dialogues complementing great narratives to make it an immersive read. How does a story capture the interest of a reader? The first few lines in a story are important elements to attract a reader to pick up your book. Readers are interested in reading a story until the end when the descriptions are clear, concise, and engaging enough to pull them into the story. While poets often leave the interpretation of a poem to the reader, narratives must be imparted effectively for understanding. When I delve into a book, I am drawn by the vivid imagery and descriptions in the narratives. If an author has painted a captivating, relatable picture of what the book represents, it would interest me to read the whole story. Here's an example: “Witnessing their love for each other, were the blue corals and pebbles that lined the seabeds, while the rays from the sun glistened like pearls on the shimmering waters.' Dialogues are important structure-building elements of a story. Dialogues add depth, and realism, and are a vital component to effective storytelling. However, stories can be told without them if the imagery and descriptions ignite an interest in a reader's five senses. ‘The Road' by Cormac McCarthy is a fine example of a successful fiction novel without dialogue that won the Pulitzer Prize in 2007. McCarthy concentrates on rich descriptions to attract the reader's senses, adding depth and rhythm to the story. He was so good that his book exemplified the power of descriptive language to pique a reader's interest and win the coveted title. A dialogue-free novel conveys a character's thoughts and reflections through internal monologues that will provide motivating insights into the story. Descriptions expressed profoundly empower a story. To engage your readers use aesthetic language and metaphors. ‘The lush, breathtakingly beautiful green landscape starkly contrasted the blue of the turquoise waters.' When describing an emotion, make sure the reader feels the story as it unfolds. In a reader's mind, he should be able to see, hear, taste and smell. This way you will engage a reader's senses to respond to your descriptions as you want them to. It is in the hands of the author to align a reader's thoughts with his. For instance, if you are talking about the sea, describe how deeply connected you are to the beauty and vast expanse of the ocean. How do the lapping waves affect you? Or the tides as they rush ashore? Use metaphors to describe nature's phenomenal wonder. ‘The translucent waters covered her feet in lyrical movements.” Write different descriptions of the scenes so you make the story intricately variable. They work wonders to create a lasting impression in the reader's mind. ‘The vivid imagery and descriptions in her writing capture the beauty and magic of the sea, likening the eyes to the breathtaking turquoise waters and exploring the wonders of the underwater world, including the delicate anemones.' In the above description, by referring to the anemones as delicate, the sea creatures' strength, vulnerability, beauty, and resilience are explained as they survive a rough underwater habitat. Through creative figures of speech, the readers will imagine and discover the magic of enchantment and intrigue in the words. ‘With eyes as breathtaking as the turquoise waters of the sea, she discovers the true magic of the island.' Textures, colours, sounds and smells are sensory details to focus on to build a rich setting for a story. Create an awesome emotional experience and add authenticity to your stories so readers will never forget how your book made them feel. Some of the stories I have read have impacted me emotionally to a great extent, and the words and imagery still evoke the same feelings as when I first read them. Authentic writing involves properly researched and truthful narratives incorporated into the story to create a deeper connection with the characters and themes. Storytelling is the ability to emotionally engage the reader and leave them feeling contented with your book at the end. Not only do vivid imagery and descriptions emphasise enrichment and broaden perspectives, but they also inspire personal growth. As an author, your goal is to impress a reader so that he will return to read more of your stories. Isn't that the dream of an author? To have his book recognised as a compelling read so that he attains credibility and is renowned as a writer. Storytelling is the art of weaving narratives and dialogues masterfully to enliven a reader's mind with a well-crafted story. Cheers to the great storytellers of all time.
The gentle summer breeze is heavy with the sugary scent of cotton candy and roasted almonds. The boy stands alone and waits, while a constant stream of visitors brushes past him. Flashing signs and brightly colored tents catch the eye. The soft thumps of the bumper cars, gleeful screams and all sorts of mechanical clatter from the rides form a marvelous symphony of sights and sounds. The boy holds his most prized possession in his clamped fist, gripping it so tight he can feel his nails dig into the soft skin of his palm. He stands, unmoved by the hustle that surrounds him, as his mind drifts to a sunny day many years ago. “This is your day, son,” his father said. “We can do whatever you want. Just you and me.” “Take me on The Devil's Drop,” the boy shot back without a second thought. “It's so fast, and so high. It's the most awesome roller coaster ever.” But back then, the boy was too young, too short. He shed heavy tears as he was turned away, and no amount of pleading by his father could sway the cashier. Later that same night, just before bedtime, his father handed him an envelope and in it were two hand-drawn tickets. “This is my promise: We'll go back on your next birthday. And if we have to, the year after that and after that, until you're THIS tall to ride. Just you and me.” The boy smiled, his tears all but forgotten, and repeated: “Just you and me.” The boy listens to the rattle and excited shrieks waft over from Blackbeard's Bounty, and his thoughts trail back to the year when the two of them had spent all day pretending to be pirates. They dug for treasure and explored the make-belief jungle of their backyard. His mother was furious at the sight of the dug-up lawn, and her precious flowerbeds cut down with cardboard sabers, but his father would make it all better. On another birthday, his father awoke the boy at the cusp of dawn and surprised him on a rented motorcycle. “Don't tell your Mom,” his father said, “This will be our little secret. You know how she feels about those death-machines.” All day they cruised through fields and forests, the boy holding on so tight that he could feel his father's beating heart as the world rushed past them both. For years they returned to the Devils Drop and every year the boy had grown a little bit taller, but every year it was not quite enough. The boy watches on as the sun sinks past the horizon and the crowds first thin out and then disappear. The carefree sounds of delight make way for the rattle of shutters closing and the soft whisper of sweeping brooms. The boy's fist clenches tighter around his treasure, feeling the coarse texture of the two worn, hand-drawn paper tickets in his palm. He wills his mind to let him stay a little longer in his most cherished memories, not take him to the day when his teary-eyed mother returned from the hospital and his father had not. Just you and me, the man whispers to no one but himself. With great care, he straightens the faded tickets and puts them safely away.
I've always been attracted to the air, the mere feeling inside airports. The freedom. I don't just mean the fact you are equally as valid buying a coffee at 8 pm as you are buying a beer at 6 am. For one, the diversity inside an airport is unmatched by any one place in the world. People are coming and going from their countries and cities, passing through, never staying, yet we are all there for the same reason. As different as I am from every person on my flight, I am the same in one way: location. These were the kinds of thoughts that overtook my brain the day I flew from Portland, Oregon to Barcelona, Spain. 18 then, alone, excited, scared, and apparently in a philosophical headspace. While everyone on that flight headed towards the same location, only one eighteen-year-old girl moved across the world alone for her education. I didn't feel any sort of regret, perpetual fear, yeah. Distinctly, I understood my entire life would change completely when my flight landed. I'd had transitional life periods before, moving cities with my family for example, or the summer between middle school and high school. Nothing from my past could even attempt to compare to that flight. It was as if I'd walked out of the front door of my house only to look back and see an abyss. There was no return, only advancement. Creating a life in a new country as an eighteen-year-old with no family, friends, or support system might seem like an impossible task, an entirely undesirable one, but to me, it just screamed freedom--opportunity. No set path meant choices. For the first time in my life, I could be and do exactly what I wanted. Now, to be clear, this wasn't an overnight impulsive decision. I did put a lot of thought into my overseas move. Two months prior I'd been admitted into Geneva Business School in Barcelona. I had a Residency Visa for Spain. I'd already put a downpayment down on a room in a shared apartment in Barrio Gotic. I felt prepared, more or less. Moving Abroad proved to have its difficulties. For one, my Spanish lacked fluency. My free time was spent entirely alone, and I no longer looked at the same sky as my family and friends back home. Yet, Barcelona, as I describe it now, is just like an airport. While alone, I never felt lonely. Barcelona´s residents, being 27% foreigners, welcomed me with open arms. Walking the corridors of the city's oldest district (with buildings older than my entire country) felt like a dream. Five days after my arrival, I began my first day at the University. My school, being the private business school it is, attracts a lot of foreigners. The seats in my classes filled up with people from Sweden, Egypt, India, Brazil, and basically every country you can think of. In a class of twenty students, eighteen nationalities were present. My school held one more highly desirable trait: Every single one of us wanted companionship. We were all new to Barcelona. Before the end of the first week, I was getting coffee with classmates and planning weekend outings with a group of girls. Now, as I learn the local language, study Entrepreneurship, and live in the only place I've ever felt truly happy, I can say without a single doubt I made the right choice. Things settled, as they always do, in the exact way they were supposed to. Could I have just gone to OSU in Oregon? Yes, of course. Did I have to choose one of the most intense and difficult paths in my life? No, but I wanted to. I live with a constant feeling of FOMO. My life doesn't feel nearly long enough. I am constantly in a desire for the best, most unique experiences to fill out my life. To me, the string of memories that my life will be in the end is all that matters.
A parent's greatest worry, when they send their children off and out, out into the wide, wide world, that has only seemed to grow in size as the years drag on, is whether they'll be alright. Whether they know the strength in asking for help, and the wisdom in knowing it's almost always there for them when they need it. There are smaller fears, too, like how often will they remember to call home? Will they make themselves their favourite meal? Will they miss their parents? Or will the newness and opportunities, the growth and exploration, will it all distract them so much, too much, like a cat following the point of a laser, right off the edge of the sofa, off down the side with a rather indignant yowl. Unhurt, of course, save for their pride. If they don't ring, when they don't ring, you can only ring them, texting them first so that you can catch them when they're on their phones, unable to hide that they're there, nowadays it's the only way to ensure those of that age answer it seems. But if you don't, if you stick to texts and messages, awaiting replies that eventually come, you step into some nuance of the typed word – not written, these hidden meanings too new to have sprung from pen and paper – never known before, unwittingly causing offence with simple adherence to punctuation. Some do still try, asking for notes and rules to put on the pad by the telephone, pressed neatly atop the seldom used pages littered with numbers scribbled out too many years ago now. There's always some that fall through, missing from the cheat sheet, leaving you to grasp at meaning, tentatively googling only to find potentials innumerable and subject to context incomprehensible. That's on purpose I'm afraid. It's nothing personal – we just need a buffer for when we slip. There are some things you just don't need to know, the parents, some things we keep to our conversations with each other that you've never really understood. That's not a bad thing though! Understanding is so important, yes, but you know what is even more important than that? Acceptance. Even when you don't understand us, you accept us, that means more than can be said. You accept us and our quirks, not despite of but because of. We forget to call and fear the phone when it rings, we speak in tongues that change almost daily, we ask for our favourite meals because even when we try it just doesn't taste the same. Or at least that's what we claim, you're always so suspicious that we just don't want to cook. You accept us for that too. Begrudgingly. We know that you're there, with one of those cartoony trampolines to rush under us if we fall too far, or a camera to record us if it's just a slip like the cat. You'll drive six hours after a long shift to a country you hate just to nurse us back to health from a cold. I mean, it was tonsillitis, had antibiotics and everything, never had it before, but sure. And I know it doesn't ease the worry nagging at you when you open your phone in the morning, after weeks without a single word, to find the horrific saga of a butchered tin of soup sent at one in the morning when you know damn well you bought a perfectly serviceable tin opener. Turns out I may not know how to use a tin opener. Or a knife. The spoon worked though.
As I handed him my writing, a part of my heart started to ache. Not because I was handing him my very own writing, a piece I never really shared, but because it was him who was judging my work. He grabbed it and stuffed it in his book bag, one that I often found cute. I remember him thanking me for giving him a chance to proofread my work and saying that he wouldn't take long to edit my short story. I was fascinated by him. Someone who was smart, misunderstood by a lot of people, and had a hard family life. The minute he told me he was having a hard time in his home, with his parents fighting and taking it out on him, my arms reached out. I wanted to hug him in the moment. But would he accept me? I couldn't risk it, tucking my arms away. The only time I ever got close to him was when we met. I was heading out of class on my first day back in school. I had a hard time making and keeping real friends, but just like any other fanfiction story, I bumped into him. "I'm so sorry!" He cried, as if it were his fault. At lunch, we met again, seeing him sit next to me and a bunch of others. He was neat, someone who loved tea and baking. Someone I really liked. As time went on, we exchanged foods and baked goods. He'd be the perfect boyfriend, I thought—someone who'd bake me brownies and bring them to school for me. Someone who'd see a coffee shop and think of me. I remember walking into his class and seeing him smile and hand me a coffee. "I remembered you said you'd like vanilla-flavored coffee, so I got you some!" He said, handing it over. And boy, was it good. I loved him. I really did. I think, from the moment I laid eyes on him and from the moment we bumped into each other, I always had. His brown, chocolatey hair, his hazel eyes, and his smile will be sketched in my mind for ages. And even though we never dated, let alone expressed how we felt about each other, there will always be a part of my heart left for him.
On most days, Ronan Russo would consider himself to be a good man. He was married to his high school sweetheart, Camilla, and had three beautiful children. He had a well-paying job at Bank of America and enjoyed hiking through the Whiteface Mountains. He thanked God every night for the blessings he'd provided to his family. But now, as Ronan pressed his knees into the red, velvet carpet of an eighteenth-century Catholic cathedral in lower Manhattan, he recognized that in the variety of days where he was good, there was one where he was bad. One might say that everyone made mistakes and all they could do was take it as a life-lesson and move on. On the day that Ronan was a bad man, however, he didn't step away. Seven months ago, Jasmine Young joined the Bank of America team as a new marketing agent. Her office was across from his, and on her first day of work, he looked up to find her wearing a white turtleneck with a long, pastel yellow skirt that had daisies. She had straight, black hair and medium-tanned skin, her eyes a dazzling shade of green. She was obviously gorgeous, and any thirty-eight year old man would notice her. But when Ronan went to introduce himself, Jasmine didn't ask about his job or family, but what his favorite novel was. The question had taken him by surprise. Everything that first came to mind were Magic Tree House and Rainbow Magic, stories he read to his children at night. He couldn't remember the last time he'd read for his own pleasure, the last time he'd done anything for himself. But Jasmine was a reminder that Ronan deserved to live just like everyone else. They got drinks together after work and played beer bong, roamed through bookstores and read snippets of cheesy romance novels, sat side-by-side during meetings and slid random thoughts on pieces of paper to each other. And it felt so good to just be Ronan that he wanted to succumb himself to the feeling forever. Ronan looked up. The ceiling depicted a fresco of a gathering in heaven: angels knelt before Jesus Christ, who sat on a golden throne and wore a crown of thorns, and their glistening wings flew gleefully behind them as they raised their hands in praise. But, despite the glory that was in front of Jesus, he appeared distant, staring into the towering, gilded gates as if he were afraid that no one would come home to him, that the messages he'd preached on earth hadn't been enough to convince humanity to always be good Samaritans. He rubbed the back of his neck. Why was he here? He shouldn't feel guilty for feeling alive. Yet the weight of Jesus's stare pressed into his chest like when he gave his children piggyback rides on hikes, when his wife wrapped her arm around his shoulders at dinner. That was meant to be his completion, his satisfaction. “I cheated on my wife,” he confessed. “Last month, our office had a holiday party and Jasmine and I were in charge of cleanup. As I was sweeping the floor, I glanced over at her at the same time she looked at me, and it was like there was some kind of invisible string drawing us to one another. We kissed and I went home with her, and we knew I was married, but we still let it happen. That's not the real sin, though; the fact that I don't regret doing it is. I was only existing until I met Jasmine. Camilla prefers quietness, but when we first got married we went on road trips and partied in the West Village until dawn because we were excited to start our lives together. But then we had children and had to balance family and work, so we willingly chose quietness. But in that, we stopped living as our own individuals, and while I feel like myself with Jasmine, I'm still Camilla's husband and broke a vow.” Jesus looked at him, his fingers reaching out to the gates as if he would pull Ronan in and forgive him. But did Ronan deserve that? This mountain he walked on was an illicit affair: he wanted to reach the top for wholeness, but he was being weighed down by commitment. “I don't know what to do,” Ronan whispered. And in his entire existence, Jesus didn't know, either.
Kochi, thought of as a can of storm clouds, synchronies with Govind's mood. With time the once lively canvasses of his dreams had faded away and all that was left were their shadows in a neglected diary. Surfing through social media at stormy nights, each photo a glorious post card from a life he was not living, Govind felt the heartbreak. Prompted by that overwhelming desire, he messaged Neha, a ray of sunshine in his college days. A reunion was arranged. The city, engulfed in gloom, acted as the setting for their meeting at a tiny café. Govind's heart surfaced, admitting the void that had consumed him. Neha was listening with a tear rolling on her face. "Life's a cruel joke, Govind," she confessed in a faint voice. "We run after dreams that vanish when we draw too close to them. Perhaps, after all, dreams aren't that much important in the larger picture of things." Govind looked outside and the buildings blurred. Her words shattered the fragile hope clinging to him. Was this life the same as a storm, and then the return to normal routine? The café isolated him, the city lights laughing at him. It was hard to tell which day was which as they all ran into each other. Then, there was a resounding knock that broke the monotony. Here is Neha, an old photo album in her hand. It was their college album, an emblem of their dreams realized. They sat; the album a time bridge spanning years. Every old image is like a window to a time when something can be done. An image of festival, happiness glowing in the eyes of youngsters. Another, the arms slung around each other, a sign of the past closeness. Each image is like a shard of a broken mirror – reflecting joy and shattering the illusion of their imagined futures. It couldn't be the future they have been planning for. Silence was all around, only the wind mourning outside. Neha began to speak, her voice quavering. " I went back, Govind" she confessed. "Travelled, ticked things off a list. But..." That was how she saw it in Govind's eyes – the displeasure, the sense that there was no longer any magic in dreams. "It wasn't enough," she whispered. "The chasing never ends." The album fell open to a blank page – it was an abstract representation of their unfulfilled dreams. A bottomless sadness invaded Govind. They weren't only mourning their dreams; they were grieving the life they could have shared together. Neha put her hand on him, the gesture of united grief. They weren't just individuals, but rather the shattered image of what could have been. A rumble of thunder accentuated the silence. Neha stood up her chin raised and her face shining with sorrow and determination. "I am sorry, but I have to go," she said. "But Govind, perhaps life isn't about great gestures. Maybe it's these small, everyday moments, the people we meet and the love we share?" She finished and then she went but her words stayed, a small spark of hope set in the arctic of his warm heart. He gazed at the photo album and the white page before him a frightening sight. On the other hand, he was filled with gloom, but, as he tried to find it, he recalled their joint past – the laughter, the friendship, the tacit understanding that they had between them. Neha was right. Maybe life isn't about achieving the greatness. Perhaps it was about the bonds he had forged, the times he lived to the fullest, and the love he had for the people in his life. Govind was touched , a lone tear rolling down his cheek. He could no longer regain the past, but at least, he could decide to exist in the present. Maybe, yes, maybe indeed it was still possible to see beauty in the ordinary things. The rains came to an end, opening a narrow slit of moonlight. It wasn't a loud glare, but an enlightened glow, a hope for a brighter tomorrow. He approached the window, to his surprise, determination started to replace the despair. He wouldn't be a slave to his dreams but he wouldn't omit them either. He carried them with him like a memento, both a reminder of the past and a guide to the future. Kochi used to be in some sort of darken. Now, it sparkled under the pale moon. It was still alive with activity. He breathed deeply. He didn't know what would happen next, but it was the first time in a while that he felt the smallest glimpse of optimism. He might be at loose ends, but he wouldn't sink anyway. He will continue to search for meaning, for purpose, for connection and, who knows, perhaps he will find his own unique melody in the symphony of life.
There is not a single day here in the village of Maroź. Night followed by constant night is all the townspeople know. Daytime is a myth, a legend at this point. Not a single soul alive has seen, or felt the sun on their face. Cold dreary days are all that we have to look forward too. Until the prophecy of old is fulfilled that is. The elders in our village have passed down this tale for decades. A young man on his 21st birthday will come into his magic and enter the spirit realm where he will stand the test against time. He is to save the Sun Goddess who has been lost to the spirit realm, a prisoner of the dark spectral world. She has been gone for so long, no one believes in her story anymore. The start of the end of this tale, begins now. The rain was beating so hard upon the ceiling, the wood slats couldn't squeeze tight enough for the moisture to not penetrate. The liquid, making its way down the posts, dropped onto Koulders face. Waking him for the tenth time that night. He just wanted to sleep past midnight and get his birthday over with. Ever since his mother passed away he has not had much motivation to enjoy these days. He decides to sit up and think. It was all he was good at anymore. It didn't get him very far nor did it get his mind off hard subjects. Trauma was his way of life, all he knew. All he would ever be. He would have laid back down and drifted off had it not been for a short rap on his door. Filled with a sense of anxiety at a social visit, Koulder made his way to the door. There stood a hooded figure drenched from the nights torrents. Koulder slammed the door shut and locked it. He didn't know who that was and he wasn't prepared to find out. He just wanted to go back to sleep. Another rap much louder then the first sent him throwing the door open and demanding the visitor state his business. The hood came down. There stood a woman of middle age, with long brown locks tied up in a bun. She stated she was cold wet and hungry and asked if Koulder could help her. Unable to turn the poor creature away he invited her in. Once inside the woman was no longer a mere woman. A sorceress, old and evil and of the spirit realm had just entered his domain, knowing very well who Koulder is and the prophecy he doesn't know, that's about to kick in. She attacks Koulder with his back to her, holding him by his neck against a wall. He doesn't know what to think everything happened so quickly. She is too strong to pry off of him and the evil dead stare in her eyes was all too much for him Koulder passed out from the anxiety of the situation. Waking up, Koulder is surrounded by a thick white fog. He is not in the dwelling he knows so well. Feeling full of energy all of a sudden, he gets up to investigate. As he stands he here's a woman scream. Wanting to investigate he heads to where he heard her. Flying ghostly apparitions appear left and right, Koulder is realizing he is in the spirit world that his master had warned him about. Go head to head with a Banshee and she could send you to the spirit world where it's hard to remember who and why you are while she she dines on your body in the waking world. Koulder was lucid enough to remember his masters words. His magic hadn't grown in him yet so he was unprotected in a hostile world. Reaching the area he heard the scream he is blinded by a light so bright he can't even comprehend what it is. Behind the light, the silhouette of a very beautiful and naked woman stood trembling. She sees Koulder and begs him to leave before the Tempest returned. An evil old banshee more powerful than the simple monster he has encountered. Seeing her standing there vulnerable broke something inside him. In just a short time Koulder, who has surely turned 21 by now, was rudely awoken by the angry leaking sky, attacked by a banshee and sent to a creepy land to come across a beautiful naked angel and she is terrified. Too much has happened to make him just turn away. Focusing and breathing, he can feel the power surge inside him. Something is awakening. He won't run. He will get his peace and rest. He will save this woman. Knowing the realm has a portal from past stories, Koulder and the mysterious woman set out to find it. Aware the tempest could catch them at any moments notice. Before the left he set a trap for the old banshee so she wouldn't be able to follow them. The bright woman told a story as old as time itself tho it felt like hours to her. She was kidnapped from her home in the sky. Forced to live in darkness so the banshee could have full domination in the dark. She was the Sun Goddess. Recognizing Koulder was the man to fulfil the prophecy, the bright lady touched his forehead. Power shot out of his head and into the sky above him, illuminating the space between them. He was the lamp to her light. Thru the portal she kills the banshee and together they bring the sun back to a world lost to the dark for way too long.
Being voiceless in the grand narrative of our world's events is a profound challenge, as the relentless march of human dominance continues to overshadow the plight of those without the power to speak up. Throughout the annals of history, humanity's footprint on the Earth has been marked more by acts of destruction than preservation. It commenced with the cataclysmic horrors of nuclear warfare and the devastating impact of atomic bombs, tragedies that elicited vocal outcry from our species, but left the voices of countless other creatures unheard. While we, as human beings, have always found our voices to advocate for our kind, the same cannot be said for the myriad of wildlife species that inhabit our planet. The cries of the monkeys, the roars of the lions, the stealthy prowls of the tigers—these voices have been drowned out by our own, relegated to the sidelines of discourse and action. We may consider ourselves the custodians of the ecosystem, but what of the other tenants who share this planet with us? From the microscopic organisms dwelling in our oceans to the majestic creatures roaming the savannas, we have systematically dismantled and disregarded their habitats, pushing them closer to the brink of extinction with each passing day. As the global dialogue surrounding climate change gains momentum, much of the focus remains fixated on reducing carbon emissions and mitigating environmental degradation. Yet, conspicuously absent from this discourse is a concerted effort to safeguard and enhance the natural habitats of wildlife. How can we claim to be making progress towards achieving the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) when we overlook the fundamental importance of preserving biodiversity and restoring balance to fragile ecosystems? Surveying the current state of our planet's ecosystem, it becomes alarmingly clear that many terrestrial species are teetering on the precipice of oblivion. Without a voice to advocate on their behalf, they rely solely upon our collective stewardship to shield them from the perils posed by human activity. It falls upon us, as guardians of this planet, to rise to the challenge and enact meaningful change to ensure their survival for generations to come. In addressing the systemic threats facing wildlife populations, we must first confront the root causes of their decline. Habitat destruction, driven by urbanization, deforestation, and industrial expansion, stands as one of the foremost threats to biodiversity. By prioritizing the conservation and restoration of natural habitats, we can provide sanctuary for imperiled species and mitigate the irreversible loss of biodiversity. Furthermore, we must reckon with the pervasive impacts of pollution and environmental degradation on wildlife populations. From plastic pollution suffocating marine life to toxic chemicals contaminating terrestrial habitats, human-induced pollution poses a grave threat to the health and well-being of countless species. Through concerted efforts to reduce our ecological footprint and implement sustainable practices, we can safeguard the integrity of ecosystems and mitigate the detrimental effects of pollution on wildlife. Equally imperative is the need to address the interconnectedness of ecosystems and the cascading effects of species loss. The extinction of one species can trigger a domino effect, disrupting delicate ecological balance and imperiling entire ecosystems. By recognizing and preserving the intricate web of life that sustains our planet, we can foster resilience in the face of environmental challenges and safeguard biodiversity for future generations. Moreover, we must acknowledge the inherent value of wildlife beyond their instrumental utility to human society. Each species, no matter how seemingly inconsequential, plays a unique and irreplaceable role in the tapestry of life. From pollinating crops to regulating ecosystems, wildlife provides invaluable ecological services that are essential to the health and functioning of our planet. By embracing a holistic ethic of conservation that respects the intrinsic worth of all living beings, we can forge a more sustainable and harmonious relationship with the natural world. In conclusion, the imperative to protect and preserve wildlife extends far beyond mere moral obligation—it is an essential prerequisite for the survival of our planet and future generations. As stewards of this Earth, we possess both the power and the responsibility to safeguard biodiversity and ensure the continued existence of all living creatures. By amplifying the voices of the voiceless and championing the cause of wildlife conservation, we can forge a path toward a more equitable and sustainable future for all.
Thank you very much for participating in the Biopage Storytelling Writing Contest! The results are now available on the contest webpage: https://www.biopage.com/contest It was a very difficult decision to make! We received many high-quality essays from around the world, it was so difficult to pick the winners. We have “Children of war” from Shobana and “Peace is priceless” from David to reflect the ongoing wars in the world. We have “Where there is will, there is a way” from Shreya, “The warmth of the garden” from Brandon, and “Is it me?” from Emilia to describe their experience with mental disorders. We have “Gifts of December” from Lily about the lighter note of life. And we have “Seed of greatness” from Stephene about hope and growth in poetry! The winners will receive separate emails regarding award certificates and prizes. We are sorry that most of you will be disappointed; but remember you are all winners! Many participants appreciated the contest as an opportunity to stay away from the noisy social media, to really start writing again to express themselves and to tell stories. Please keep in mind that this is a recurrent contest; you are welcome to write another story and submit again! Please continue to stay in the community of Biopage, using the website or more conveniently the iOS app or Android app to continue to write, and to stay in touch with your friends and other writers. If you use the iOS app or Android app, please rate and write a review at the App Store or Google Play. We are giving out an Amazon gift card to each user who wrote a review about Biopage at the App Store. Please email admin@biopage.com with your App Store or Google Play ID name and a screenshot of the review, and the gift card may arrive in 2 weeks. A certificate of participation of the writing contest will be available upon request by email. Thank you and happy writing! The Biopage Writing Contest Committee
When you are the sun, I am the moon. The space is our stage, Our audience is the Earth. Where you are the heroine, And I am the hero. You are the source that illuminates me, Without you, I am nothing more than a normal rock. I may be closer to our audience, But without you, they cannot exist. As we dance around the earth, It gets emotional and cries like a child, creating the oceans. The oceans also have their highs and lows because of us. Sometimes the Earth gets jealous of us, And comes between us, Which makes me angry and makes me turn red. Our audience will see my different phases As I revolve around them and While they revolve around you.
I always believed it was easier to be a villain than a hero. “Everything is simple, you fight only for yourself, not for others like a hero”. But it was not as simple as I thought. When I was in school many years ago, everyone in my class was “villain”, including me. We all studied to get better grades ourselves. We didn't help each other, we didn't even explain if one of us didn't understand, except one girl. There was the most intelligent girl in our class. She was shy, quiet and a bit mysterious. Everyone used her to raise their grades. They pretended to be her friends. However, they were fake friends like birds which flies when winter comes. One day I also decided to use her. Not to raise my grade, but to lower other classmates' grades through the essays we wrote and gave to the teacher for checking. Teacher believed her and gave this essays her for checking instead. I pretened to help her like others did. At that time, I talked with her alone for the first time. To be honest, she was different than I knew. Cheerful, kind and most importantly, sincere. She talked about her interest in drawing and what kind of pictures she drew. At this time, I wanted to distract her and achieve my goal. I hesitated, though. I felt fear and distemper inside. In order to be evil, one should not be a coward, but on the contrary, one should be brave, cold and strong. But at the same time, it took courage and strength not to be evil. These were different things that were similar to each other. And I became stronger, not to be villain. On my opinion, being the villain in someone's life isn't as cool as we watched movies. When someone becomes evil, he or she does evil to himself or herself first.
On Sunday I got on a bus. It was a day off, everyone was crowding and pushing. The fare costs five pesos, and in front of me a woman was fiddling with a ten-peso coin. Either they couldn't give her change, or she herself wanted to find exactly five pesos, God knows. I told her, "Excuse me, let me give you my five-peso coin, and you pay ten for the two of us." She looked at me with wide eyes, " What do you mean I should pay for the two of us?! Pay for yourself!" I said, "Well, I'll give you five pesos." She frowned, "I don't need anything, I'll only pay for myself. You young people have become completely insolent." Those who heard this twirled their fingers at their temples, someone muttered under his breath about “stupid women”, but in the end everyone sat down, and the lady somehow sorted out the fare herself. The bus was on the way, I was looking out the window and listening to music. Suddenly someone touched me on the shoulder. I turned around - the same ten-peso woman was standing in front of me. I expected anything, but not what she said. “Excuse me, miss. I only now realized what you were suggesting. It was a hard week, I didn't rest at the weekend, so I became dull. Sorry. I wish that hadn't happened.” This is how a funny story about a “stupid woman” ended up as a story about a tired woman who does not forget to take responsibility for her behavior. Mistakes don't matter. What matters is that you deal with their consequences.
Little teacher Station. My all exams finished and I was waiting for bus. At that time sudden, I saw little, so pretty, sympathetic, clean and stylishly dressed a boy. He is about 4 or 5 years old. He used to collect garbage around the sidewalk so take it to special conteniars. I was watching the clever boy during a few time. This Street crowded, in this case lot of people look at the boy and shying for casting own garbage to walkway. They watched the boy a fewer time and blush from own behavior. I also watched the position so thought about doing goodness for enviroment. The goodness absolutely return to our life, even will influence to future. Definitely, being decent isn't depend on to age or format of humans. Those only depend on a person's soul and behavior. I figure out, the boy teach me that lesson, besides stayed at my mind as little teacher.