Descriptive writing is a very specific style and a hard one to master. I challenged myself by taking four different images, each one with its unique style, and then I tried to describe them to the best of my abilities. What follows is the result.
Thick fog banks concealed the depth of the night, suspending an eerie pale glow in the backdrop of the woods. Around the zig-zag walking path paved with stones, silhouettes of thin tall trees lined up like unmarked gravestones in a wartime graveyard. Their hollow tree trunks stood vigilant and peremptory on guard of the forest secrets.
Muffled steps marched with inevitable regular persistence towards the small cross-gabled roof house and from the single window on the upper floor, a dim yellow light cast its accusatory presence onto the cold and uncanny undergrowth outside.
A battle of wills was afoot.
Gentle streams of water, blessed with turquoise reflections and oblivious of their upcoming fate, sinuously make their way between rows of astonished fir trees to finally betray into a foaming rage, lunging unrepentant against a bevvy of rocks laid there by a will older than time.
Some of the trees residing closer to the banks lean forward further than the others to better observe that crude spectacle. They burn inside from an excessive eagerness to collect a flash of others’ glory.
Lonely from above, the Moon watches and illuminates all. Destined to provide, but unable to be provided for, she finds resigned solace in the spectacle of that world for her too far to reach.
Symbols of human ingenuity and ambition, the high and towering buildings poke into the sky above, breaking through that delimiting line where view meets edge-of-the-earth. Orange and purple clouds bow away in reverence for the human hand that in pointing up stretches its fingers in a vain strive to reach the gods.
Shining brighter than stars, a myriad of dotted city lights arouse envy in the desolate dusky sky above, creating an evanescent upside-down illusion of an Empyrean Heaven lying beneath an amaranthine shaded ocean of unrealised dreams.
Surrounded by splashes of pale tears and rubicund concrete fusing together, a black-haired lady marches forward in a portrayal of ever-growing confidence. High on her hills, she splits the city into two, mimicking the Greek God’s wounded pride that first halved humanity.
She leaves behind more and more memories shamefully erased in black. Too heavy to be carried on, they lie on the godforsaken sidewalk of broken dreams and youthful folly, left to ooze severed from her grieving soul.
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