My weary running feet stumble, and I fall heavily to the sweet, cool grass. I lie here, panting painfully. Too tired to cry.
But the sky keeps getting lighter. It coaxes my eyes open, and when I see, they open wide.
The grass is sparkling golden. All around me, the light transforms the dewdrops into tiny jewels of pink, orange and yellow, glittering like warm stars against the dim ground.
Slowly I sit up. I am soaked with the liquid treasure, and my heart aches with the beauty. My clothes are stained green with life.
"God," I whisper, "You are merciful. You give us beauty."


Pickle

I savor the taste in my mouth and take one more bite. I hear a pleasing crunch as my teeth sink into the wonderful and juicy green treat. I then take from the jar another one of my favorite things to eat, and gobble it up in just a few bites until there is none more to be seen. What a wonderful thing to eat; nothing can replace the taste of a pickle to me.

A morning dove's cry.

The soft breath of a summer breeze tickled my face, and tugged at my hair. Beneath my bare feet I felt the coolness of the earth, damp from the morning dew. My nine year old eyes wandered the backyard pausing at the huge silver maple tree, the garden, the swaying branches of the apple tree, a butterfly fluttering past. Amazed at the beauty of this tranquil moment, I smiled, joy filling my young heart to overflowing. Dad stepped outside, and taking a deep gulp of the sweet air, turned his smiling face to gaze at me, love in his eyes. A morning dove called in greeting to a new day. He cupped his hands over his mouth and called back in reply.
“Oh Daddy, please teach me how to do that! It’s so pretty!” I begged, bouncing in my excitement.
Grinning at my exuberance, he brought his hands together again, explaining how to place them just so. Giggling happily I curved my right hand over my left in an attempt to copy my father’s large ones. Lifting them to my mouth I blew as hard as could. A sound like a dying duck came out, sending both of us into fits of laughter. Patiently he showed me again, demonstrating the call for me over and over. All to soon Mom called out the window, announcing that breakfast was ready. The moment had passed and would never return again, that I knew. But the memory, well that could last a lifetime.


A leather bound journal.

I calmy walked to where my journal set on my desk and sat down to write about all of the events of the day. My fingers were stained from the ink I used, and the smell of it added to the smell of the leather covering of the dark brown journal. I was used to this, and it had even become a special part of my home. Every day it would be there, and it would always be a friend to talk to if one was needed. It was a comfort always and was helpful on a sad day, because I could confess anything to it. This journal had become one of the most wonderful things I owned, and would be there no matter what.

A Thanksgiving dinner.

Family gathered around the old wooden table, faded red and gold tablecloth setting off the feast, as always. As always, the platter of meat starts in front of Grandpa, as always, cranberry sauce never reaches the children's end. The bowl of mashed potatoes is scraped clean by the same person every year. As always, there are those who choose the pumpkin pie and those who choose apple, and some people ask for both. Tumblers of punch are set aside in exchange for teacups, and talk turns to the same things as last year. Or not, there are always new events, new accomplishments to celebrate and new things to celebrate or mourn. One who is not here for the first time this year, events in a far away country that merit thought. But there's the underlying theme that's there every year. As always, we're thankful to be here and not there, we're glad that those we lost were here in the first place. As always, Lord we're thankful for this meal.

Hmm. A phoenix.

I tried to keep my eyes away, dragging in the dirt, but they kept leaping up from the road, drawn irresistibly to the gallows. My raw and blistered feet screamed at me every time I glanced up towards the wooden planks roughly sawn, and up higher, to the weathered sandy brown rope shaped like a teardrop--yet I couldn't stop. Tomorrow, I would be the one hanging there, swollen and distorted, food for the ravens and dogs. I would be punished for a crime I did not commit.

Sparks fly.

The clear glass doors seemed to close in on the little elf, suddenly causing him to shrink into a tight ball and close his eyes so he would not have to look at them. They only caused him to panic, those revolving doors. He was much to weak to move them, and he was too frightended to try it anyways. He was not only sad, though, but mad at that unkind man that had thrown him in there like an unwanted piece of trash. The elf was a sight to look at, caught in those doors, decked out in his pointy clothes in colors of white and blue. Many people thought of him as a fake decoration, a fancy ploy to draw people in, but he was anything but fake. He was a lonely elf, in need of help.

That was fun!

A factory producing chocolate bars.

Could someone start this up again?

I will. I'll write it tonight and post hopefully tomorrow.

Rattle of beans down a chute into the melting pot, and on the other end, no sound as liquid falls through the pipes. Whrrr, bonk. Whrrr, bonk. Rectangular molds split into eight slide, stop, slide, stop on a conveyor belt. Sshh plop, sshh plop as dark, rich liquid chocolate drips from stainless steel pipes into the molds. Neert, neert, neert -an automatic arm moves chocolate from one belt to another, placing it with a crinkle onto shiny gold foil. A couple more crisp folds and into a box. Scritch, scritch, scritch of packing tape, click of stamp.
Rattle of beans down a chute...

I went more for the sounds on that one.

A birthday party for an eleven-year-old boy.

Oooo... that was just as I imagined it!



I'll have to work on that one...

The ruckus refused to die down as all the pre-adolescent children sprinted and shuffled across the backyard. The faint smell of frosting and cotton candy filled the air as in a corner, lay a lone boy, surrounded by pieces of wrapping paper, playing with a toy airplane he had received as a gift for another trip around the sun. Some of the children's faces expressed jealousy, others joy, but none could deny the amount of sugar-induced fun they were enjoying.

A home for retired old men. (Don't ask me why, I just felt like it.)

The wheelchair's wheels squeaked like a broken door. The thought of the contraption for the physically impaired collapsing crossed many a mind as the black leather and silver metal cart left the threshold of the house and continued down the sterile hallway of the Men's wing of the old folks home. The quite tones of septuagenarians were soon interrupted by the insane laughter of another wheelchair joining the previously aforementioned device in a race down the manicured carpet.

That was very fun even if I didn't do a very good job.

A Goat.

The little kid goat nuzzled her soft, warm nose into my shoulder as I stroked her downy white hair. She then turned back to her bottle, which I held with the end tipped up so she could drink her breakfast. I still remember the day she was born, almost as joyous and celebrated as a human birth in our family. She is mine, all mine. I shall name her Goose.

A throne made of bones.

I got a bit carried away. That was fun.

He was Lord of all. He sat above death. Death itself, or at least its pale, dry fruit held him up. He commanded death. At his order he had had this seat built. At his command his followers had fell on their swords, and now their white, lifeless frames continued to do their master's bidding, freed from their red flesh, released from their black robes. His chair was doom, was hopelessness, was faithlessness, was terror in the eyes of those who saw it. *If God himself came into my house, I would kill him too...* he thought. But ones whose past is death, one whose present is a living death, has not but death in his future. If he had a heart among the marrow-less ashen supports of his throne, He'd have realized, in his heart of hearts, that death itself would one day be cast away......

Space.

That was awesome, Eli!

A black, airless vacuum, sprinkled with stars too far away to reach, and planets we have yet to land on. A sun; a giant fireball, ninety-three million or so miles away, yet it still gives light and warmth to the earth.
Satellites and space stations orbit the earth. The earth which we thought was enormous, now made small by our new discoveries. We are but dust in the wind compared to the whole universe.

I know, that stunk. Give me a break, I just woke up.
Umm...
A fight on a rooftop.

I love descriptions! *Tackles this one*

 Quick steps hurry across the rooftop, like the patter of cat's paws, only much louder. Vibrations tickle my bare feet, and at the last moment I turn and dodge. My prosecutor trips on a patch of bare shingles, but it up before I can tackle him. He's fast. I let loose my fist and punch him in the gut, but my clenched fingers met hard stomach muscles. He's strong.
  I sidestep his next punch then take a blow to my shoulder. A groan slips out between my teeth. The attacker comes after me again, but I don't plan to let him take advantage of my weakness. I crouch low at the last minute, my black clothes blending into the dark shingles and cool summer night. His kick flies above my head. I dive for his ankle while he is still standing on one foot. My hands grasp the smooth leather boot, and in one smooth movement I push upward and he tumbles to the ground and keeps moving, down the steep slope of the roof. He cries out and catches himself, but hanging on the very edge by his fingertips.
  I walk over and look down at him. For a moment his eyes plead with me, glancing up to me and down to the two-story drop. I smile and pound my foot on his fingers, with a scream he tumbles into the darkness. He's also not very smart.

That was fun!

Oh, and here's the next one:

A desert.

Strawberries to surround the base, frosting to add an extra taste, and just for the fun of it, a single lit candle to top it all off. Whipped cream right in the center, chocolate ice cream just waiting to be scooped up and dropped over each delicious slice of the cake. This wonderful desert is honestly the only reason I decided to come celebrate.



The next person who dares take on this challenge shall describe... an ornate plate.

Well, I actually meant a desert, the barren, sandy, and hot places, not a dessert. But that was good, and what I get for not being specific.

The plate lay on the table, waiting to be filled. Its face white as milk, it sat patiently, as the rolls that would fill it baked in the oven.
Blue paint, applied with fine, delicate brushstrokes, created intricate patterns of vines, leaves and flowers. Although not the usual color for greenery, the blue added a beautiful touch to the scalloped edges. An heirloom handed down generation through generation, it still served its purposes-both food for the eyes, and holding food for the stomach.
The steaming rolls tumbled onto the plate, and many hands reached to grab the delicious bread.
And just like that, its face peeked through again.


Hmm... A long, long fall.

GAHHHH!!!! It wasn't your fault Azlyn. I just have an issue with my brain. Somehow, I ALWAYS manage to confuse desert and dessert.

That's fine! I do it too, and had to google it to make sure I was putting the right one down.

Anyways, I'll have to think about the long fall...

As I fall the white bones of others are below me, blanched to a color whiter than any man can produce. They stare back at me, gradually getting bigger as I race towards them in macabre ecstasy. The flight of death is here. The air is cool, the sun rises. I am halfway down the side of the rocky spire that is crowned with the evilest looking crag you can imagine. I close my eyes for I cannot bear the sight of the abhorrent edifice. My speed increases. I have no qualms about this, I must continue for I cannot stop. The great height from which I started suddenly becomes apparent as I turn mid-air; the ground is much closer now. The atmosphere around me seems to suddenly collapse; my chest heaves inward. The weight of all things on heaven and earth have come upon my frail emaciated body. Things stop. I am no longer falling.

That is more about a drop, but oh well. That was fun. *thinks killing imaginary characters is okay*

Describe:
A stormy sea

As the waves grew taller around the ship, my men and I scrambled to secure the rigging. Dark, heavy clouds blew in fast, cutting out all of the sunlight. Quickly we lit the lamps and then continued about our work. A huge wave crashed against the ship, tilting it sideways. One man almost fell over board, so we quickly put on our life lines. Another wave, bigger than the last, crashed over the side of the ship and onto the deck. The wind picked up, a bolt of lightning flashed, and a clap of thunder boomed. Then the rain came. Little droplets at first, but then the quickly grew into what seemed like little water bombs. Soaked from head to toe and beginning to freeze, my men and I continued our attempt to stay on course. The wind blew our sails in the opposite direction we wanted to go, and its strength continued to increase. Barely being able to see, I watched the mast. Suddenly, it began to crack. Within five minutes it gave way. More waves crashed onto our ship, higher and higher each time. We could do nothing now. The Hurricane had caught us in its relentless grip. We quickly ran below deck and did the only thing we could do: wait.

The next person must describe: a meal aboard the Nautilus.

That one was perfect for you, Mon Capitan.
I hope I remember the details right... I've only been aboard the Nautilus once. Please don't disown me if I get something wrong!

Captain Nemo, after completing the butter beer she had been mixing for one of her guests at the soda counter, walked past the clamshell fountain toward the seating area and announced, "Dinner is served. Please follow me to the dining room."
I stood from the red velvet couch, reluctantly tearing my eyes from the view of the bottom of the sea outside the wide window, and followed my Captain and my nose to the place of partaking in the consumption of delicious edible things. We sat at the massive oak table and waited for the crew members to fill our delicate china plates with victuals.
Since terrana shark salad, seaweed souffle, and the other menu options did not exactly appeal to me, Nemo allowed me to special-order a steak of blackened swordfish. I can only say this: It was heavenly.
Our stomachs full, we retreated back to the room from whence we came to once again watch in admiration the fish darting around the light outside the ship's window, and stand in awe of the rarely seen beauty of the bottom of the sea.

Okay, so I may have based this on my actual outing on the Nautilus, but I did change some things.

Hmm... An epic fight with a monster.

Haha. I would never disown you for getting my submarine wrong. I often use those mistakes to improve the ship. I heartily enjoyed your description.

Oooooh. Here's a chance to make some fan fiction. I'm going to title this description:

The Beast Within

Don't let the title throw you, though. Let's see if you can guess whom I am describing here:

I had to do it. I could not let him get away this time. Not after so long. I had chased him for over three years. He was mine. Finally. I had him cornered, you see. Which is a very difficult thing. Only Prometheus has ever been able to contain him, and even then barely, so I thought for sure he would escape. But he just stood there. You know, I owed this creature my life. Several times he had saved it. Like that time in Las Vegas. Or that other time in the woods. Though when we were in the forest he was more often man than the beast. John Doe is what I've known him as. Such a gentleman, courteous, strong, and never wanting to give up.

How could I do it? How could I capture this man? I owed him my life. But for years I waited for this moment! I took out my gun, loaded with an animal tranquilizer. My friend. That is what I had called him. "Call me Jack, all my friends do," I had told him. I couldn't capture him. What heartless person would? But he needed help, and so did I. Without this story, without the capture of the creature, I would have been stuck exposing little stories in little towns. Real journalism is what I wanted, and this creature would give me that chance! I cocked the gun and aimed it at the creature.

The creature raised his arms and roared in such an animal way. That's all he was. An animal. This would be easy. But that couldn't be right. I knew this man. My friend. Could I hurt him? Running. He was always running from me. And I was always running. Running towards him. As I grew to understand him, I tried to be less threatening. I tried to tell him that I truly wanted to help him, but he never would let me. Now was my chance to make it up to him. I would save him from his inner creature. I would save him from his beast within. But he may have had some logic to his thinking. Would I not exploit his condition to the world? The National Register is read by all of America. I placed my hand on the trigger.

Perhaps I could write my story in such a way that would give me my break, but protect this man. My friend. John Doe would no longer have to live in fear, and I could stop living in contempt from others. I know John doesn't trust me. It's because of my reputation in my paper. But if only he knew that I hated those exploitations! If only he knew that his story would allow me to write real journalism! I pulled the trigger.

The dart hit the creature on his massive, green leg. He cried out in pain. It hurt me to see him act like this. Immediately he grabbed my gun and crushed it. He looked me in the eyes, grabbed my jacket, and threw me back. He hit the walls, but failed to break through. The tranquilizer had begun its work. He winced in pain from the dart, then hit the wall again. It frustrated him that he had no way of escape.

The creature sat down facing me and looked as if he was going to cry. He pulled the dart out of his leg, but it was too late. His strength was leaving him. I stood up and walked over to him, looking around the room for a pay phone. Then something happened that I had never seen in all of my years chasing this thing. It's transformation back into John. I had witnessed the initial metamorphosis, but never the return. Slowly the creature's muscles shrank to the size of a normal man's, and the green skin color turned tan. As John blinked his eyes turned back to brown from white. John was almost unconscious due to the drug, but he still attempted to orient himself.

I looked into John's face and then it was I who needed to orient myself. I took a second look, and then tried to speak. How could I have done such a thing? How could I have accused the beast of murder in my column? For here sat whom I had thought was the creature's first victim! How could I have wanted to capture this man. How could I have let my passion take a hold of me. Still, my obsession with this creature prevailed and my curiosity got hold of me. I opened my mouth once again, looking straight at the man, and said, "David, is that you?" The man grew startled and then fell asleep.


OK, so I know this isn't exactly an epic battle, but it sort of is. But I really wanted to do some fan fiction, so I hope this counts. Can y'all guess who all of the characters are?

The next person will describe... being a cabin boy/girl aboard a ship.

Interesting...

The rocking, always with the rocking. My hammock swung rhythmically between the two posts of hewn oak supporting in part the upper deck through which shown streams of silver starlight, dancing two and fro with the motion of the great ship Hoarfrost upon the trackless sea.
Much the previous day had I longed for the sun to sink to it's rest below the horizon, for only when it was too dark to see did my tasks for the day end. Always something needing to be done, something to be cleaned, things to be kept in order, food to be prepared or rum to be watered down into grog. For three years had I been a cabin boy, three years had I longed for the day that I would leave the service of the burly cook to become a sailor.

Ah well, three more to go.

And still the ship rocked.

... Describe......
Um,

Satisfaction at taking vengeance.

Finally, I thought as I stood over the body, my sword dripping with the lifeblood of my longtime foe. Finally, I have avenged her.
Seven years I had hunted this man. Seven years I had failed. But on that glorious day, I was free.
Free. Free to do what?
I stared at the prone body on the hard-packed dirt, at the blood blossoming and seeping through the fabric of his jacket, feeling utter satisfaction at the fact that my enemy lay dead... But also an emptiness. My quest was over. What could I do next? I had nothing else to live for.
With a deep sigh, full of many emotions, including perhaps a bit of sorrow, I cleaned my sword and trudged on through the moonlit forest.

Describe... A very thirsty person finally finding water.

Too long. She had been thirsty for too long. No matter what she did, it was never enough to satisfy her, never enough to stop the thirst.
Now, though, she might finally have found it. It was beautiful, filling her completely. But whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed the water I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.
Finally, she was satisfied. No more barrelling through life searching for a drink to quench the thirst of her spirit. She had found the spring of living water, and never again would she be thirsty.

What about that?

Next: Someone trying to throw off writer's block.

OH MY GOODNESS, that is totally me!
*cracks knuckles*

Becca sat in her swivel chair, drawn up to a whitewashed wooden desk, and opened the lid of her laptop.
Resuming Windows, it said as a little circle turned around and around on the screen.
Then the blue loading screen disappeared, and her home screen popped up. Clicking on the logo labeled Unnamed Document, she scrolled to the end of the measly five thousand or so words, cracked her knuckles, then positioned her hands over the keyboard, waiting for that special spark, the switch in her brain that would flip itself, causing her fingers to crank out words at amazing speed, that somehow made sense and would weave a tale of adventure, of romance, of tragedy.
But nothing came.
The, she typed, thinking that perhaps if she began, her mind would catch on and show her what to say.
The girl ran.
No, that would not do.
She ran, not looking back for fear of...
Becca slapped the keyboard, as if that would help anything, but all it accomplished was to type ghfvg.
She felt like crying. Why was it so hard? Why would the words not come to her as they normally did? So smooth, so easy would the narration flow from her mind to the keyboard; but not today.
The worst part was, she knew what had to happen in the story. She knew what the circumstances would be, how the even would take place. But Becca simply could not transform the picture in her mind, growing ever whiter and more blank, into keystrokes.
Maybe I should take a break, she thought, typing the words at the same time just because she could. I can't do this.
"Wait," she said aloud, feeling a familiar warmth of excitement in the pit of her stomach.
And then the spark hit.

Describe...
Missing someone you have never met in real life. (sound familiar, HWers?)

How are they? I wonder. They sounded upset in that last message. I wish I could be there to know for sure. I stare at my computer screen, worried, then drop my head into my hands. Prayer is the only way I can help. I feel a tug on my heart. It’s so much easier to know if someone is okay when you can see their face. Words are hard to interpret sometimes.
I spend a day worrying. My mind falls back to them constantly, and every time it does, I pray for them. Every time I pray I wish I was there, close enough to put a hand on their shoulder and pray with them instead of just for them. As soon as I can, I drop back into the chair in front of the computer and open up my messages. Nothing. And again, I wish I was there to see whether my message had even been read yet, to see whether I made even that measly difference.
So I wait, again. Missing the words that will reassure me that they’re all right, missing the unmistakable voice behind them. Wondering, a bit, whether it would sound happy or sad, grateful or maybe a bit teasing. Missing a smile in a face I’ve never seen.

I agree. It's very familiar. Hard to describe, though. This took me a couple tries.

Hmm.
Describe the shoe you've worn most recently.

It's for Sundays only, but it's still getting pretty worn out...and I haven't had it that long. What is it that happens to my shoes? It is a brown color, made of leather (or pseudo leather) of several different textures, all stitched together with black thread. It is a very simple, roundish shape, with an open top that has a wide strap across it, of brown leather too. All the edges are starting to fray. But I like it anyway....

A drop of water.

The drop of water rolled down the large leaf. It moved slowly, gaining up speed as it reached the tip. When it finally went over the edge, it hung there for a moment, as though resisting the inevitable fall. Then it dropped.

A funeral.