Young Writers Society

A Brief Introduction
The ability to forge images from words is perhaps one of the most important aspects in writing. The best writers, as far as imagery goes (Conrad, Lovecraft, etc.), are not only able to describe scenes, but are able to manipulate words and grammar so that they also establish a sort of feeling - one that is beneficial towards their story. This is commonly referred to as atmospheric writing. Atmospheric writing is the highest form of imagery. It encompasses meticulously chosen words, the flow of said words (sound-wise), and beautiful sentence structuring. These aspects would, ideally, complement each other; hence the appeal. Every single detail is vividly established in the reader's mind. This is what you should be aiming for whenever you are attempting to create imagery.

Rules
Your post must contain:

1. A guess at what the previous player was describing. They will not be allowed to use the actual word or the two taboo words (explained later on) in their description, but, if the description is good (which I'm sure they will be), you should be able to guess it pretty easily.

2. A complete description of the word designated inside the previous player's spoiler. You will not be able to use the word or the two taboo words in your description, so be creative! When it comes to imagery, the possibilities are limitless. Keep your description within a 100-500 word count. Also, make sure you don't get caught up in the guessing game part of this exercise. The point is to reinforce descriptive skills, not to play Taboo. But don't make it absolutely impossible for the next person to guess it, either. Again, be creative. Keep in mind the contents of the introduction. If you would like, I will allow you to include a character that interacts with the subject of your descriptions, as long as the focus is put on the imagery, and not on the character. Feel free to utilize first-, second-, or third-person characters.

3. A spoiler containing 1) the scene, person, object, animal, etc. (we're working on physical descriptions, so don't do something like "soccer" or "biology") that the next player will describe, and 2) two related words that the next player is not allowed to use in their description. All forms of these words count - for example, you still cannot use "running" if one of the taboo words is "run."

Important: DO NOT look inside the spoiler that contains the word that the previous player is basing their description off of. This is cheating, and, for the sake of the game, is highly discouraged.

Example
I'll do a model, in case you're confused, or need further specification as far as what to include in your post.

Let's say the previous player had included the following spoiler in their post.


This means that I will be describing A whilst refraining from using the words "A," "B," or "C."

Now for the model.



(Your guess at what the previous player was describing would go here.)

It is early. You can tell by the way the mist clings in moist clumps to the low-hanging tree-leaves, which are a sleepy aquamarine in the morning light. The sky, a blanket of silver stretching across the horizons, is visible only in pinpricks of luminescence piercing through the canopy. You lift your head, squinting your eyes at these placid stars; you are shaded by a mesh of leaves and branches, a labyrinthine net of alternating limes and browns. The sound of birdsong is but an echo, blown to your ear by a dampened breeze.

You step forward, and a pulpous noise escapes from the area beneath your foot. You sink downward a few inches through the moist layers of overgrowth and fallen leaves, until the ground decides it has compacted enough, and you stop. Water and mud leak out from between your toes, which are already bruised and discolored from walking. You close your eyes, inhale. The air is crisp. Alive, almost - like the leopard you had seen last night, resting, yet tense, alert, life rippling down its spotted mane. It had stared at you as you passed, tail pendulating back and forth, almost hypnotically. But it did not attack. You miss the way the setting sun had glinted off its golden fur, had made its shadowed countenance appear both beautiful and ominous: it is much too quiet now. But you keep walking. There are birds in the distance.

DO NOT OPEN SPOILER UNLESS YOU ARE THE NEXT PLAYER


Now the next person guesses the word I was basing my imagery on, and play continues as demonstrated.

I'm guessing your word was probably jungle? Lovely description, by the way.



Cold waves splash against my bare ankles. As each wave recedes, I can feel the sand being pulled out from under my feet, sucked away, summoned with all of nature's strength. I can't help but wonder where it will end up. Will it be carried aloft by the tide, bobbing and splashing on the cold waves? Maybe it will swim with dolphins, bouncing between their smooth backs. Maybe it will get lodged in between the teeth of a shark as the animal opens its terrible jaws to devour its prey.

Maybe those grains of sand that only seconds ago escaped from under my feet will be carried all the way to another continent. Maybe it will get lodged in the clothes of a foreign fisherman, who will carry it into his home, way off on the other side of the horizon. Maybe his young daughter will take her first step that night, holding onto her father's pant-leg, holding the grain of sand in her small fist. And when he claps for her, she will clap too, slapping the sand each time her hands meet.

Maybe, the grains will travel all over the world and come right back here to get stuck again between my toes. Maybe.


-----------------------------
For the eyes of the next player ALONE:

Toooooooo easy. You were describing the ocean, which I love.

Also, I have to ask Kafka: Are you really thirteen? Because the more of your posts the read, the less I believe it...unless you're secretly Artemis Fowl.

Okay, here I go:

Sunlight slants across the yellow walls, the formica countertops and wooden cabinets, the small white table where the family will gather in a little while. Birdsong can be heard through the open window above the sink. A woman and a man, both with dark hair peppered with gray, stand at a counter together, talking and laughing and elbowing each other as they dice vegetables on separate cutting boards. It would be a good scene for a murder, if his hand slipped; he is doing the Italian thing, waving his knife around while he talks. A large black pot simmers on the island stovetop. The smells of basil and parmesan waft from the orange liquid within it already, warm smells. The woman finishes dicing the celery and slides it into the pot. The man adds diced onion and tries to taste-test the soup, but the woman hits him playfully. Laughter can be heard now and then from the yard as their children appear in the window, waving at them. The woman calls to them through the window, saying that dinner will be ready soon. In the meantime, she and her husband put the cutting boards and knives in the sink and set out ceramic bowls in various colors: Blue for their oldest daughter, purple for the middle child, pink for the youngest. They wipe off the counters, stir the soup, and call again to their children.

Eh, I'm gonna stop there. I think you get the picture.

Okay, next player:

You're describing a kitchen.

Soft, leathery pads touch down on a smooth, grey rock, surrounded by gold and green on all sides. An equally golden body stretches out lazily and flops to the stone beneath it. Its position suggests sloth, but those strong, amber eyes watch a heard of wildebeasts grazing absent-mindedly some yards away, and a pink tongue rolls over a hungry set of lips. The savannah breeze groes stronger for a moment, and on it floats the smell of weakness - of promise. That sturdy nose and those piercing eyes have detected injury in one of the calves of the heard, and the will to eat grows stronger than the will to rest.

Ever so silently, the creature rises, muscles rolling noticeably beneath its tawny flesh and fur. It crouches low, ears twitching at the sound of rustling behind it. So the females have joined him - he can hear them, see them in his peripherial. As one body, they slink forward, silent and nearly invisible in the tall grass. One long claw somehow manages to hit the smallest of stones, sending a very muted ripple of sound through the air. One wildebeast notices, and her ears prick. Soon, the heard is gone - even the weakened calf. All that they leave is a cloud of dust, very noticeable in the afternoon sun. It's taunting, practically singing their defeat. Meal lost, the beast lets out a powerful roar, pins his ears against his head and slinks away in search of a different meal.

~~~~~~~

Next player:

Mmm...was your word "lion?" Very well done, by the way.

Something is pressing against your leg. It is a subtle observation, as if the pressure had been there for hours, insidiously waiting for attention. Though "insidious" may not be the right word, you think - for you have remembered. Remembered darkened school periods of note taking, and phone numbers, and pencil sketches buried beneath white and blue. Written memories pulse against your leg.

How did it get here? You haven't seen the thing for years, and yet here it is, this wilted remembrancer. You take it out, let your fingers flip through soft white paper. It is hardly a centimeter in height, and manages still to entrance you with nostalgia. You find a drawing a friend you had forgotten the name of, a scribbled poem, the properties of Xenon. You reach the last page, and stare at it. It is blank.

Reaching inside your pocket, you feel a pencil.



Alrighty. Next player only, please -

I guessed "school", before looking, since I didn't know this was the last post! Sorry!

Here goes:

A silver sheen, a mighty reign, a glow. Who knows the lonesome purity of his kingdom? Swimming through silken waves of utter blackness, the waves glistening off his mighty ethereal shine, as he parades elegantly across his balcony. A weary sky, indeed it is, when he decides he must only peek through the clouds, when he knows he must recuperate for another long month of dancing, gliding across the expansive ballroom. His children laugh and flirt, singing mesmeric songs, meant for his ears alone, as they swoon and chuckle together in everlasting beauty.

Family feuds occur, as well as ambush. Clouds convey with the atmosphere and bitter duskiness pours out, and the world must weep as it yearns beseechingly for convalescence, for a return of brightness to him who rules the darker part of day.

A slender neck flows into a strong body, muscles along your legs, your tail swishing with each step. You are ready, your coach says, while the crowd incoherently screams and your oponents trot along. While others like you are running free in plains, you run a different sort of race. Maybe life in the country would have been easier on your tired bones and wilting stamina but you can't miss what you never had.


(Sorry if you can't get it. It wasn't very imagery-full. Writer's block is a meany.)

~*~

For the next player:

A race horse? o:

----

The brisk night air was still full of constant chattering. Down below, the people stood in their clusters, sharing their body heat and giving no care as to the people around them. The man in the corner rocked back and forth, rubbing his hands together despite the fingerless gloves he wore. The woman a couple benches away slouched with a cigarette hanging limply between her fingers. Her eyes were glazed over and distant.

The sound of metal upon metal screeched from down the tunnel, and the people all turned in the direction of their transport as it arrived right before their eyes. Pushing and shoving ensued as the passengers loaded and unloaded, adding more to the noise that never seems to go away in this city.

Cigarettes and trash littered the floors, and the seats were all torn up or written on with pen and marker. The smell there was worse than at the station, where the cool night air helped freshen up the scent. Everyone squeezed together, the chattering bouncing off the walls of their compressed room. With a sudden jerk, they were transported to their next destination.

----

For next player's eyes only:

A bullet train, the subway?

------
It's a quiet place, a lovely place. Imperfect shapes dot the ground at their intervals; the sky overhead looms over them like a mother, keeping careful track of where each and every treasure is kept. It isn't hard: the ochre stands out against the light of a dying day, not blending into the other colours in their environment. Notice us, the shapes say, singing to the sky. Watch us. Care for us.

Soon, they will be taken and mutilated, but they don't mind. They exist to be beautiful, shimmering shades of not-quite-vermilion in the sunset, and they know they will fulfil that quest for beauty by the ends of their lives. They can feel it in their skins and leaves, shaking as they turn up to the sky for guidance. They are destined for decoration, loving hands carving out their innards and shaping a new dream within the poor spheres.

They don't mind. They almost look forward to this fate. The shapes they create within themselves will be memorable, though rotting quickly. Almost in unison, the plants give a shiver, but no one is there to witness it. No one sees their beauty now; many will later. When beggars and thieves come running up to doorbells, asking for things, they will be noticed. Oh, how they will be noticed.

-----
Next player only:

Jabz, you're awesome for reviving this!

In other news, my guess, after some thought, is pumpkin, or perhaps pumpkin patch.

It's almost beautiful, the way the clouds spin like pottery wheels, writhe downward in translucent ringlets. It reminds me of water in a funnel, the kind where the water rotates like solar system diagrams and never seems to disappear. Dark clouds, shadowy clouds, flood to the center, with those winter-branch limbs splayed disjointedly, those fluctuating shades of gray. I wish I could think of it as a top, something that spins, something that for a moment or two is captivating beyond measure, but something that can be knocked over, picked up, laughed about. But it is no top.

As the monstrous typhoon feeds, grows, inhales torrents of air from the surface of the waves beneath it, it begins to roll forward. The clouds are no longer clouds: they turbulate and coalesce and become the waves, swelling and pulsing. It is a war machine, yet no army could face it. It is the fire in Nature's eyes.

Now, it is not beautiful. Now it is a monster.

A tsunami maybe?

~*~

The children that live here have sun-burned brows and scarred cheeks from the salty grains that whip and scrape their face whenever the wind starts. The breeze, it's burning and it raises a storm of dust that settles itself into your hair and ears and nostrils, it finds its way into your eyelashes and mouth. The sun, it becomes an enemy in a place like this and the heat, the ridiculous oven-on-high heat is nothing like you've ever felt before. Your lips are dry and you feel light headed, nauseous and you want cold water so bad, you'd kill for it. You blink several times but before it all fades to black, a bright, lush oasis, with a clear lake and a basket of fruit suddenly appears less than two feet away.

The desert?

The noise never stops, always resounding in your head, even when it is muffled by the thick glass seperating you from the rest of the world; the incessant roaring of engines, the screeching of tyres along a the newly paved surface, coated with tarmac and already worn by just weeks of the never-ending flow of travellers. A place like this learns never to stop, not even when the night falls and the sky is curtained by what should have been a veil of heavy velvet black - but is instead a dim curtain which shines a musty, polluted orange.

It reminds you of a hospital; the way that the activity and the noise never end is all too similar to the way there is no difference between day and night in those dreary hospital buildings. Yet at night, all is somehow ghostly and translucent here. You may look out through the glass and see the scenery whizzing past you. So many living souls passed this place and never gave it a second glance. We’re always rolling along here. In a way, our life is just like this place, because we’re always moving, always travelling.

At night, if you look out of the window, you will see the bright beams of headlights lighting up the paved, stationary surface beneath you. Yet although the surface is stationary, nothing on it ever is. It’s always moving, whether it is day or night.

For the next player only:

A freeway?


You're walking down the sidewalk on your way to the store and from the corner of your eye, you see it; its beautiful, lustrous, red layers mesmerize you. You cannot take your eyes off of it and you find yourself staring at the radiant color of red as it shifts into a thin lining of pink around the edge. The black darkness in the middle is the deciding factor for bringing your face in as close as possible. You want to see if the amazing red goes any deeper, but then it hits you. The aroma climbs across your senses and you find yourself closing your eyes to heighten your sense of smell to the fullest. You inch your face closer and closer until your nose gently rubs itself against the softness of the red beauty. A deep breathe takes it all in and you have never experienced anything more satisfying in your life. The red beauty from Mother Nature attacks your senses, urging you to take action. You grab the stem hoping you can take it with you and stick your nose in it until it smells no longer, but are pricked from the many thorns. For a second, you forgot it wasn't yours to possess and its attraction is meant for all of those who are fortunate enough to walk by. You take one final deep breath, filling your lungs with the essence of beauty, and continue walking down the sidewalk.

Do Not Read Unless You Are The Next Player

A rose? Beautiful imagery by the way

I stroked my palm against her black glossy fur, instantly feeling the wave of relaxation that came with every pat. Visible as only a small ball of fluff, she perched herself on the oak dresser that was just under the window drowned in sunlight. But soon she was off, leaping to the ground with her lanky legs and prowling to the otherside of the room. She outsretched her padded paws and stuck her tail playfully into the air. But after her sudden awaking, her glaring eyes were wide and watchful, ready to start her day as a playful princess.


For the next posters eyes only!

Is it a cat?

You did not stride into the room with confidence like you did four days before. Your eyes, shiny black pebbles then, are now dull as a puddle of mud. They dart around at the sketch-pad white walls, the wooden chair at the side of my bed, the vase with the lillies. I wonder if your heart is filling in beats where mine has gone staccato.

Fear is the shade of red that is peaking from the collar of your issued white coat. Fear for my life? Do no harm...

Just tell me

Now, your eyes are pinned to the clipboard in your hands as though any slight aversion would render you helpless, making you forget you are the epitome of professionalism, of command, of respect. The miracle worker.

You lick cracked lips, and swallow three times, before pulling the ball point pen from your breast pocket. You begin to speak, but a raspy noise has seized the tone you've mastered for situations like this one. But you recover quickly. You lift your head, raise your shoulders till they're squared and look me dead in the eyes.

Do no harm...

For The Next Player