2023 A to Z Challenge Blog: Imagery

Good morning. Another sunshiny day. I’ll take it.

Today’s post is about imagery. Imagery is a figure of speech, used by authors essentially to draw pictures with words and allow the reader to imagine what the characters see or feel. It engages the senses–see, hear, smell, taste and touch–to deepen the reader’s comprehension of what’s happening and how they should respond to it.

Not sure exactly what imagery entails, check out this website. SmartBlogger

As an English teacher for more than thirty years, I have a strong appreciation for descriptions and using literary devises helps me convey the way my characters feel, what they see, hear, smell, taste, and touch. I use similes, metaphors, onomatopoeia, and yes, the dreaded cliches in my work. Below is the prologue to one of my books. See how many images you can find.

I have a paranormal suspense series called The Punishers.

There are two worlds in New Orleans, the mortal realm and the underworld populated by immortals, the undead, and other preternatural characters. The detectives of NOPD’s Paranormal Investigative Squad follow up on crimes involving the underworld, and when those crimes spill over into the mortal one, look out!

Book One, The Tigress starts with a prologue about the main character.

My name is Ellie Taggart, at least it is now. Over the last thousand or so years, I’ve had many names—too many to count, too many to remember—but this will be the last one I’ll need. Times have changed. Evil doesn’t hide in dark corners. It lives in the light. This world we live in is filled with more monsters than humans realize, more than one being can deal with in a lifetime, even if that lifetime does span centuries.

I’m tired. I would like to fall in love, have children, grow old, and spend the last of my days quietly sipping tea on a porch swing, surrounded by purring cats, not battling the forces of evil. But that’s not going to happen. It can’t. I’m the last of my line—maybe even the last of my kind—and that’s how it has to be.

If you saw me on the street, you might not notice me, but if you did, you would see a thirty-something woman with the golden skin and deep brown hair of her Asian ancestors. If you really looked at me, you might note my pert nose, wide mouth, pouty lips, and unusual almond-shaped eyes. What you wouldn’t see is who I am—what I am.

I was born deep in the jungles of the Indian Subcontinent, at the base of the Himalayan Mountains, during a time when few kept track of dates the way they do today. My father was a Royal Bengal tiger, the largest and most majestic of his kind, while my mother was a rare and unusual rakshasa. Don’t recognize the word? Not too surprising. So many people have forsaken the religion of their ancestors to swear allegiance to greed and corruption, the very thing that gives evil its power.

Even those who know what a rakshasa is don’t believe we exist anymore, and other than me, they’re correct. We are the shapeshifters found in Hindu, Buddhist, and countless other mythologies. We’re also known as “Maneaters”—not that I’ve ever indulged. Give me chicken or fish any day.

People have always been afraid of what they don’t understand, and shapeshifters of any kind certainly fall into that category. In truth, in human form, my mother was petite, delicate, and so very beautiful, with black hair, bronze skin, and almond-shaped amber eyes—my eyes now, orbs I hide behind tinted lenses.

Sadly, like witches with warts and hooked noses, rakshasa was depicted as a huge, ugly creature with fangs and long, sharp, claw-like fingernails. They were considered cruel, growling beasts with insatiable appetites for human flesh. I’ve seen them portrayed with flaming red eyes and hair, drinking blood with their palms or from a human skull, a lot like the less than fair representations of vampires. Most of those I know these days aren’t a bit like that. They sip wine in crystal goblets and get their blood online from specialty stores.

Can I fly? No, but my mother could. She could assume the shape of any creature, even the fearsome yeti, but for lack of a better term, I’m a half-breed, with sorely limited skills. While I have superhuman strength, I can’t vanish, but I’ve learned to be an expert at camouflage. I have some telepathic ability, which makes it easy to make people forget what they saw, or imagine they witnessed something else. Afterall, who really believes in the creatures of the night? It’s the stuff of television programs, movies, and books. But the legends are real—too real.
Am I immortal? No, I’m not a god or a demi-god, but my lifespan is impressive, and like my mother who died at Draug’s hand, killing me takes a lot of work.

I lived deep in the jungle until my father passed on, and then mother moved us up the mountain to a safer place. There she taught me to survive and guided me through my first changes. Unlike the shapeshifters controlled by the moon’s power, I can shift whenever I need to, and while in that form, heal and recover from whatever damages have been inflicted on me.
When I reached my maturity, many years older than I appear, she told me that if anything were to happen to her, I needed to seek the Chou-Lan Monastery in the hidden valley. There the monks would tutor me and teach me how to use my powers.

Life was pleasant, uneventful, until that fateful day when Draug and his revenant found us. Unlearned in the art of battle, unable to defend myself, I did as Mother requested, I shifted into my tigress form, ran, and hid.

The sounds of clashing swords and tearing flesh were horrific. Four against one. In the heat of the battle, no one thinks clearly, but in the end, it was my mother’s headless body that lay upon the field. Draug’s angry cries at the loss of his prize, killed by his own hand, split the silence. That night, I vowed to avenge her, but it was centuries before I understood the real reason for his agonized screams, and that while she’d died, she’d won the battle.
When the monsters had gone, I crept from my hiding place. There was nothing left for me there. Mourning, the pain so deep it made it hard for me to retain any shape, I searched for Mother’s head, but it was gone. Claimed as a trophy? Proof that he’d killed her? To this day, I don’t know. With grief ripping me apart, I built a pyre and cremated what was left of her the way she had my father. The mountains no longer held any appeal for me.

Leaving our sanctuary, I made my way into the hidden valley and searched until I found the monks she’d spoken of. Shifting into human form, I told my story. Decade after decade, century after century, I lived hidden among the holy men where I studied, practiced the arts I would need to survive, and learned of the responsibilities I carried as one of the punishers, beings born of the light whose sacred duty is to fight the forces of darkness and defend those unable to protect themselves. When the time came, I said farewell to the last of those who’d become family to me and headed into the world to fulfil my destiny as the scourge of evil.

Since then, I’ve roamed the earth and watched century after century as the powers of darkness have grown, turning the innocent into monsters almost as evil and corrupt as they are. Not all of the non-humans and undead dwelling amongst humanity are evil, just as not every human is good, but in the last century, those who foster hate and greed, jealousy and envy, and the rest of the deadly sins, have grown more powerful, more daring.

When my enemies crossed the line, I found them and dealt with them. I’ve wiped the minds of witches, wizards, and warlocks who dared practice the dark art and turned their empty shells over to their authorities. I’ve dealt with the undead and shapeshifters myself, battling those who posed a danger to humanity, consigning their unholy remains to oblivion. With each battle, I’ve learned and grown stronger, for power comes from knowledge. But I still have much to learn before I can face Draug.

I serve the light, going where darkness dwells, watching it insinuate itself more completely into modern society each year. It needs to be stopped—but I’m just one.

Draug doesn’t know I exist, but I know him. I remember the sight and smell of him, and one day, we’ll meet on the field of battle. It’ll be a fight to the death, one I’ll fight in my true form—my father’s form. But until then, protecting humanity from those who would use and abuse them for evil purposes is my mission. Who am I, you ask? I’m the Tigress.

That’s it for me today. Find other bloggers and their posts here. https://tinyurl.com/3we8aa84

Come back tomorrow when I’ll give you a Did You Know? for the letter J. Enjoy your day.