Memories In Cursive Novels & Stories

Dates, times, and locations. “Harrison home at 5:52, lights on 5:54, lights off 10:30.” “Estelle clinic arrival 8:17, left at 4:43, drove to school.” “Lucas school gate 8:22, backpack blue, jumper on backwards.” I flipped through slowly. The writing changed as the pages went on. Early entries sprawled across the lines, quick and messy. By the third week the letters had shrunk, tight and careful, each line perfectly straight.

Depending on what they did or how much damage they did to my baby 4. They are forced to live in the lower cells 5. - - She grabbed a nearby pen, scribbling down a few changes to what she saw. Obviously, what was already written down was not to her complete liking. "Your handwritin' is shit." "My handwriting is creative!" I argued. It wasn't at all sloppy and it's very readable. I didn't see anything wrong with how I write. Just because I didn't want to waste my time learning cursive, something that most people can't even ready, doesn't mean my handwriting was awful.

Out of curiosity, I went close and read the printed words. 'In the loving memory of Rowan Black Smith' 'In the loving memory of Heliana Smith' The name seemed so familiar, it's like I already heard those names. They sounded important to my ears. 💙💙💙 Grazzi Vergiance! Vote and Comment. Enjoy reading! :) Please tell me some of your comments and suggestion for improvements. I will be willing to learn more and that would be great. -DarkVergent

It brings back that memory I've kept locked away for years. My thighs press together, sparks traveling straight to my pussy. Fuck me, he is yummy to look at. My gaze travels lower, my pulse pounding in my throat. Right there, inked in delicate signature-style cursive low on the inside of his left thigh... is my name. Worse, it’s not just any font. It’s in my handwriting! The letters are bold, permanent, and far too intimate. I gasp, the sound embarrassingly loud. "What the actual fuck...?"

Her mother’s initials were burned into the cover in delicate cursive. M. R. She swallowed the lump in her throat and her fingers brushed over the first page where her mother’s handwriting danced across the paper–soft, looping yet familiar, so she turned the pages slowly, breathing in the scent of old ink and secrets. It felt like touching a ghost. The entries started off innocent. Memories of family, travels, and notes about the gardens. But as the pages went on, something shifted. The handwriting got rushed and fear seeped into her mother’s words.

Calista looked at the page that Lucian had turned to. The elegant handwriting differed significantly from his sharp and vigorous handwriting. She couldn't help but reminisce. It was the day she crouched between the couch and the coffee table. She had meticulously pieced together all of those forgotten memories. When she first learned about Lucian's illness, she was sad and worried. The sweetness that should've accompanied those memories was dulled. Now, with Lucian by her side in good health, her heart brimmed with sweetness despite his memory loss.

Now the memory makes his throat tighten. In a folder of meeting notes, he sees her handwriting on the margins, neat and quick, notes meant for him. She always did that. She knew his habits better than he did. She marked the points he would want to question. She added reminders for names he often forgot. She had a way of writing short words that guided him through the chaos of the meeting without him having to ask. He touches the ink with his finger as if the letters could speak.

Joko laughed, she snatched the letter and pointed at a T. “When we were in high school, Alicia learnt cursive writing and she always wrote that way, but after we graduated and entered the work field, she found out that Cursive wasn't actually readable to everyone, especially our boss, so she has to switch… but one thing she wasn't able to change was the way she wrote her T.” There was a resounding silence in the office as each of us stared at each other in shock, still trying to digest her words. “So….” We stared at each other.

The preservation had become, over forty-one years, indistinguishable from institutional memory. And now institutional memory was offering itself as supplementary documentation. She thought about what Voss had just said. I assumed it had been communicated. She thought about what she herself had done, at the start of this meeting, when she had arrived in the east conference room and felt the resonance and settled into it before deciding to. She thought about the crossed-out word in her folio. Sequencing. She had crossed it out because writing it down felt like an act of cognition she should resist. But she had already crossed it out, which meant she had already written it, which meant the resi

As soon as Bjorn accepted the concept of Suppressed Infectious Memory, his education expanded in leaps and bounds. The more information he took in, the more his dreams opened up. By the close of the third education cycle, he had written notations, formulas, and calculations directly out of memory. His mind was a living document of his mother’s memoirs.