'Allo.

Here's a bit of a game, but also a bit of a challenge/exercise, called "Describe It." Here's how it goes:

I will post a random word or phrase. If a phrase, keep it short. For example: "Glass of water," or simply "glass". Merely list something that the next person must describe to the best of his/her ability.

Example:

The first person lists "black-and-white rainbow."

The next poster then goes to describe it.

Black and white was not a color that a rainbow should be, but it was there in the sky. Black jutted defiantly against the blue-gray backdrop, while the white and lighter grays faded into almost an almost indistinguishable contrast.

I'll start.

Field of grain. (You decide if it's sunny, rainy, what's behind it, etc.)

Seemingly alive in the wind and shining in the midday sun like a sea of golden threads as far as the eye can see. The rippling grain like waves on a calm sea.

Cursed mountain. (Let your imagination run wild like it's had Red Bull)

It rose black, darker than any mountain should. The rain-filled clouds that hung from the sky looked black as well and faded into the top of the treacherous mountain. No trees lived there, only the burnt skeletons of those long ago destroyed. In fact, no life sprang from the mount. It stood, dead and dying in the falling light.


A purple river (I can be random, right?)

The sun slipped behind the river for the final time. Its rays reflected off the murky liquid giving it a purple hue as the water rippled.

A spiral staircase.

It twisted and turned over and over again, damp and narrow, the torches hanging from the walls providing only the dimmest of light for the eyes. It was the perfect food for the unsuspecting imagination to take hold upon whatever nightmares it pleased.

A Vial of Poison.

Black as death's breath was the bottle that held the fatal liquid. Symbols etched in another language decorating the outside of it. The darkness of the bottle filled your eyesight and took over your mind. Using you as its tool.

The sky before it rains.

Sorry, I just had to add my own description.

Round and round. Up and up. The chipped metal stairs are dull and dark in the light from the flickering florescent. My legs are growing weary, yet they keep trudging. Step. Step. Step. Careful not to touch the stained and sticky railing. Careful not to step in the old chewing gum and spilled soda puddles. No way to see the top or the bottom of the stairs. No way to tell how far I have come. Just keep climbing the dizzy spiral. Up and up. Never ending.

Clouds the color of dirty cotton lurked overhead, tinting the air with a sepia color. It buzzed with restrained electricity, silent and dead as a long-forgotten crypt. Waiting, breathless, waiting...

Ship in full sail.

Shouts in the night woke me. I sat up in my bunk, my eyelids dry and my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. Through my sleepiness I heard something besides the shouting and laughing. A sound I had not heard for more than a month.
Wind.
I leaped from bed and ran up on deck, pulling my jacket on. Wind swept my hair into my face, cool as a stream. No more the still, muggy heat we had sat under for five weeks. No more the frustration and despair. And then another unfamiliar sensation: the ship was moving. Not a restless shifting and rocking, but a definite forward motion. I ran to the bow, leaned over the railing. Watched the waves splash as the ship struck and ran through them. The wind grew louder, and the sails fluttered until they almost roared. They billowed out until they looked like stiff pillows. The distant island was drawing closer.
I lifted my face to the stars and sang with the sailors, forgetting my thirst and my hunger.
We were going to live.


Rough hewn steps.

Old. So old. The chips and cracks grow larger with each passing year. Soft green moss peeks out. Beetles and spiders scamper about, crawling from step to step. They lead up, up and up until they reach the top.


An old wooden chair.

It was rather black and rotten. A moldy smell rose from the ancient wood. Too long had it sat here in this dim damp basement. I could hardly tell what it had been. When I touched it, it crumbled and fell into pieces on the muddy floor. A sad end for a little chair.


Red steel.

Soft yet hard, telling of unknown power and limitless possibilities beneath the smith's hammer. The flash of sparks with each blow causing the sweat beading on his massive arms to glisten as though cast from bronze. Again and again the hammer falls, a rough blade taking shape from the molten bounty of earth.

A dying dragon.

I should have known you would be the one to respond to that one, Whackem.

I couldn't help myself

A Dying dragon.

It was done. Slowly I got to my feet, bloody sword in hand.
The dragon lay still, panting, despairing puffs of smoke snorting from its nostrils. Its once proud, shiny scales were tattered and stained. Blood pulsed from the wound in its neck.
The dragon shuddered, and for one unnerving moment its large, yellow eyes locked on mine. The fire had left them. Slowly they faded.
The beast is evil. A menace.
The dragon closed its eyes and moaned, its breath choking in its throat.


The scalding water.

Few had ever beheld the gushing springs vomited from the hot bowels of the earth, great columns of steam rose above the treeline, giving rise to myths about great serpents with smoking mouths dwelling deep beneath the mountains. Scalding hot it was, boiled by what ever fiends or devils dwelt within the cursed land within the earths shell.

A Flagon of wine.

Before I could say another word, he dragged me inside the grimy, candlelit tavern. I stumbled into a chair, and a strangely graceful flagon of wine was placed in front of me. It was about eight inches tall, of white ceramic, and its shape was smooth and flowing.
The man grabbed the curving handle roughly. Wine poured blood-red from the spout.


Thick black air.

Seemingly swallowing all light, it's evil presence threatening what little hope remained. Long had the tales of ancient necromancy surrounded this region. The black cloud slowly, hauntingly enshrouding this land. Bringing with it the sense of ultimate doom.

A broken dagger.

Something stuck out through the dirt. Roughly in the shape of a cross.
I picked it up, its edges sharp and rough against my hand. It looked like some sort of knife. Like a sword, but smaller. The hilt was blackened silver, and the brittle leather grip crumbled at my touch. The blade must have once been six inches long, but the rusty steel had half broken away, long ago.
I smiled, and held the dagger in front of me, as if ready to stab some imaginary enemy. The grip filled my hand, sending a strange thrill up my arm.
A sudden vision flashed through my mind. A girl, holding a beautiful dagger at the ready, blood on her face and tears streaming down her cheeks.
I shook my head and the image fled, but tears sprang to my own eyes. I tucked the broken dagger in my backpack and continued down the trail.


Glowing glass.

I actually got emotional, writing that. I don't know why, any more than you do.

Aemi, I think we're the only ones here

The room should have been dark, but an eerie green glow resonated from the glass sphere resting upon the stone altar. The evil prescence here could be felt, the silence was deafening. Slowly his hands encircled the glowing orb. There was a white flash... And he knew no more.

A rabbit with a pancake on his head

I'm reading this! Just not posting until y'all type something I think I can write an epic description for...

Thank you for your faithfulness...

The pancakes sizzled and bubbled brown. "Okay, your turn," I called over my shoulder. Without turning around, I scooped one off the griddle and flipped it through the air. I knew Anna was waiting to catch it on her plate.
But I didn't hear any splat of cake against plate. Only a squeak, and then peals of laughter. I turned, and behold, there was Flopsey, looking rather indignant, with the pancake perched upon his rabbity white ears.
"You missed!" Anna squealed gleefully.


Earth-shaking blast.

People, I was afraid to describe "A dying dragon" and "A broken dagger". Not my type of thing, I thought. Yet I did it anyway. And it worked.
Are you scared? Then do it while you're scared. It will turn out better than you expect.

"Kyren, this is insane," I hissed, sprinting after him.
"I know what I'm doing," he snapped, diving behind a pile of rubble.
I groaned and threw myself after him.
Behind me, the dynamite exploded. A roar filled my ears. The ground shook, and I instinctively grabbed Kyren for support. We clung to each other until the roaring stopped and the ground was still again.
I sat up, peering over the rubble. "Well, congratulations," I said. "I think it worked."



An antique lamp.

Oh! I've wanted to try this thread - just hadn't got the time - and this is the perfect phrase for me!

It was old. Clearly older than anything else in the house. Perched on the glass coffee table surrounded by art deco sculptures, it looked like alien life form, debris left behind by a time traveler, as out-of-place as a man in a spacesuit at the shopping mall. What's worse, it didn't look like anything my aunt would want to own, let alone display in the middle of her living room. This was the kind of artifact that she passed over as worthless junk, never mind the fact that the antiques dealer wanted to stick a $300 price tag on it. "Better to smash it than to waste hard-earned money resurrecting the vile tastes of yesteryear," she'd say.

Oh, that was fun.

Next phrase:

That was really good, Phili!

Seven years back luck, I thought suspiciously, as I eyed the mirror I had just dropped. It was not broken, it was only chipped. Was that small enough to overlook, or was I doomed to misery for another seven years?

Old Tablet

The tablet sat on the floor, dust collecting on the surface. It was cracked, and rendered un-usable. It's pieces were all close-by, but anyone would find them impossible to piece back together. Hundreds of legs passed over it, and many feet trampled the lost tablet. It was time to buy a new iPad.

Switch.

An unbidden fear leapt into his mind at seeing his nearly felled opponent, blood gushing from his many wounds, grab the thin tree limb and hold it before him like a rapier. Ready to make his last stand even with so pitiful a weapon.

A memory tugged at him, one involving his mother, a misdeed and pain on his derrier.

With a laugh his sword was sheathed as he slowly just walked away.

Skeleton (Animate, just lying there or even half buried, I don't care.)

We stood, staring at the white human framework on display. Only mildly interested. If you've seen one skeleton, you've seen them all, right? The grown-ups said it was fascinating. They'd kept us at this museum for hours. But this was the most...pleasant display in the exhibit. We'd both rather look at the bones than the lungs.
My friend sighed and leaned against the wall, his arms crossed wearily. He glanced back at the skeleton. "I think it's a male."
I studied the bones again. "How in the world can you tell?"
He shrugged and slid down to sit on the floor. "If it were a girl, the feet would be pointing towards the mall."


House of water.

It shouldn't have existed, too improbable, too fantastic. The rumors had been so compelling that even my better judgement wasn't enough to keep me from pursuing this strange house of water.

Yet there it was.

Rippling in the gentle breeze, the air about it tingling with the magic used in binding the liquid to this shape. It was no mansion, not even a common hut, but a house it was.

A Winter night.

(Aemi, yours was hilarious!)


The snow was coming down slowly, huge white flakes that hung on my coat for a few seconds before melting away. I tilted my head up, watching them swirl out of the dark sky to caress my face.
The wind blew steadily, cutting through every thin place in my clothing. All around me was silence. I closed my eyes, and for a moment I could believe that no one else in the world existed, and I was here alone in the dancing snow.



A picture frame

The thing was huge. Maybe six feet square, and one foot thick. It was gold leafed, with bold, intricate floral designs carved into it. The newly polished gold shone brilliantly, the light bouncing off the raised patterns until it was all a confusion. The frame was sitting against the wall, empty, and I couldn't imagine how any picture could look good inside it, compared with the overwhelming presence of the heavy golden wood.


Tight damp tunnel.

The air was thick, the darkness could be felt. The resonating tones of innumerable drips sounded as some ethereal orchestra within the close confines of this tunnle. None knew what dangers lurked within the confines of this place for none had ever ventured thus far. The time had come to change that.

A half burnt candlestick.

Um, do you mean the actual candle? The part made of wax? Or do you mean the part that holds the candle upright?

Either one would work, I actually meant the actual candle. Like the new Avatar by the way.

A half burnt candle stick.

Thank you, Whackem.

I pushed my way forward, half wading, half swimming through the chest-deep water. I held the thick white candle high over my head, and its waxy light glinted off the diamonds on the ceiling of the tunnel.
How foolish I had been to come into the mine with only a candle. The water had flooded in suddenly. Now the exit was cut off.
I continued to step, carefully feeling the rough floor with my feet. Then the floor seemed to end.
I lost my balance, my arms splashing wildly to keep from falling into the filthy blackness. The candle caught a drop of the flying water. It hissed.
No. Don't.
The light vanished, leaving me in the dark, a half-burned candle clenched in my hand.


Toe cramp.

The old man limped slowly in and pulled up a chair. He sat, and his face screwed up in an expression akin to pain, but more closely related to dis-comfort. Slowly he pulled of his shoe, and carefully massaged his toe.

All other members of the Senate looked on with frustration.

The Wright flyer

From a distance it looked like an odd sail without a ship, an improbable maze of balsa, wire and canvas. But would it fly?

With the rumbling of it's engine inside it's painted aluminum housing, the flimsy craft slowly began to pull. Its speed increased to the point where it lifted from the confines of earth and trekked into the clouds.

A field of dewy grass.

The sunset rose over the field, tainting the ground with a bright orange. Those who would study the grass would realize the clear droplets of water that had found rest on the grass. The droplets would fall to the ground silently when the wind brushed against the field. All was peaceful.

A fallen tree.

There it lay, it's death marking the end of a great age. It had seen war, peace, disaster, weather of every make. But there it lay. Silent as death, it's branches unmoving in the gentle breeze. The creatures of this forest would not mourn the passing of this ancient giant. Only the slow process of rot and decay awaited it's massive frame.

A dry river.

The ground was cracked and the river rocks were covered in dust. Never would one have guessed that there had once been a deep and wide river on the now dry ground on which I stood. The wind came and kicked up the dust, causing me to cough. My cough sounding like a screeching siren against the serene silence that was the desert.

A loud crash.

The very air resonated with the force of the crash which shook the surrounding area. But what had fallen remained hidden.

Death.

I lie, staring up at the white-hot sky, feeling the furnace-wind in my hair. Dust blows up from the valley floor and sticks to my cracked lips. The bright white bones and skulls shimmer and dance around me.
I've got to move. Find shelter. Water. But my life-blood lies spilled on the rocks underneath me, and I have no strength left.
My breathing comes slow, each breath not quite big enough. My heartbeat is fluttering, weaker than a butterfly. My eyes are so dry I can barely close them. I have no voice.
I feel my body shudder, in spite of the heat. My heart flutters more frantically, then chokes, skips a beat.
I gasp. One last time.
Vultures circle far overhead.


Cold pizza.

Oddly magical in it's own way, many would argue that it is better in this form. With the caked grease that was once oil still glazing the pepperonies. It is a bit tougher than you would like, but still good.

A moustache cup.

I agree with that description in every way, Whackem.

I warily circled the small display in the antique store. Fearful of starting an avalanche, I looked at a small cup, sitting on top of a precarious pile of dusty books. Carefully, I picked it up and examined it. Solid pewter ringed its base, and there was a strange cover on the top, as if some strange animal perched on top of it. I tried to pull the rusted piece off, but I couldn't. Waving the cup, I turned to the proprietor, "Hey mister, your cup is broken!"

(I didn't like that one =P)

Twisted smile.

eruheran

Me

Ancient ruin.

Vines crawled up what remained of the gray stone walls. In places it was no taller than a child. Loose stones, broken and scarred, were scattered about the mossy courtyard. One wall still stood nearly intact, a fragment of stained glass still in the window.



A bridge