The Writer steps forward. The wind whips her hair into her face, but she does not react. She smiles at her assembled friends, and opens her pale lips to speak. “Description – the art of lyrical language – is difficult to achieve without being overdone.” Another speaks up timidly. “Show us an example!” Her response is immediate. “How can I? But, for you, I shall try…”
The wind whispered through the trees, sighing, sobbing, singing. No one was there to see it; no one and everyone. All the world would have been standing there, their eager faces staining the dark waters, if they had but known what was about to happen.
The wind touched the water. It sang to the rivers, and the rivers sang back with a melody that was all their own, beautiful, lonely, everlasting. The wind ruffled the water as it did the leaves, deep in their drifts, in the time of autumn, of destruction, of beautiful, noble descruction. The water rippled softly, and struck the edge of the bank. The soft earth crumbled and fell to the water with the softest of sounds. Slowly some moss, a dark green and foreign to the water, slipped into the river. It rushed over it, picked it up, and now the moss was tumbled over and over in the water, flying through that alien underground world. A fish tried to eat it. It was a pity for the fish that the moss was toxic.
The wind swooped up, flinging rose petals into the air, so that they drifted, drifted and fell gently to the water. The bright colours kissed the liquid, like the eyes of a seal, limpid and helpless, and then the dark, powerful whirlpool snatched them, whirling them under the surface, away, away, lost.
“You mean that’s your descriptive passage?” questions her friend. The Writer nods. “It is indeed; although a poor effort.” She rises, and stands looking down at them. Then she smiles. “Now it’s your turn.”
The Road Of A Writer 