wainscottbl
August 27th, 2015, 09:12 AM
So I an doing short, daily excercises in random genres. Here is yesterday's. I am trying to work on different things in writing to help with my shortcomings. In this I set out to work on description. Tell me how well I did. TIA.
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The quick breeze blew up the leaves in a hissing sort of poof, and the cool autumn air felt odd. For only a week before it had been in the nineties. The smell of burning wood came to his nose, and he inhaled it with the cool breeze. The leaves were yellow, and looked slightly damp from the previous night’s rain, and when he entered the wood, the leaves were soggier and sere. The forest air smelled of wet leaves and soggy wood there.
He suddenly felt an eerie feeling…like he was being watched.
He had not gotten more than a few steps when someone spoke from behind. It was an older man’s voice, calm and cool. The coolness was a man’s, cold, not suave, and it had a self-pleasing sort of malevolence to it. “Hello, Jonathan,” it said.
Jonathan slowly turned around.
A blood curdling scream so high pitched it seemed inhuman. Jonathan’s body suddenly became cold, and he could hear his heart pumping fast in his head. The figure was tall and bone thin, dressed in a raggedy grey robe with a hood, a sickle in his hand. His face was brown. It was withered and dried out. He had a very long, thin, hooked nose with a short, sharp point that bent off perpendicular. His eyes were deep and large, the sclera unnaturally large. The pupils were hazel.
The figure spoke. “Ego sum morte,” it said.
It happened quick. A white figure flew at him, crying that same awful, inhuman shrill scream, causing Jonathan to fall to the ground. It was a woman, opaque-white and old with a smile that was full of an impish malevolence, as if she were laughing wickedly. The banshee flew through him however, and in an instant was gone.
Jonathan lay prone on the ground, the tall hooded figure over him. It brought down its sickle, and said n a deep, monstrous voice: “Requiescat in pace.”
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The quick breeze blew up the leaves in a hissing sort of poof, and the cool autumn air felt odd. For only a week before it had been in the nineties. The smell of burning wood came to his nose, and he inhaled it with the cool breeze. The leaves were yellow, and looked slightly damp from the previous night’s rain, and when he entered the wood, the leaves were soggier and sere. The forest air smelled of wet leaves and soggy wood there.
He suddenly felt an eerie feeling…like he was being watched.
He had not gotten more than a few steps when someone spoke from behind. It was an older man’s voice, calm and cool. The coolness was a man’s, cold, not suave, and it had a self-pleasing sort of malevolence to it. “Hello, Jonathan,” it said.
Jonathan slowly turned around.
A blood curdling scream so high pitched it seemed inhuman. Jonathan’s body suddenly became cold, and he could hear his heart pumping fast in his head. The figure was tall and bone thin, dressed in a raggedy grey robe with a hood, a sickle in his hand. His face was brown. It was withered and dried out. He had a very long, thin, hooked nose with a short, sharp point that bent off perpendicular. His eyes were deep and large, the sclera unnaturally large. The pupils were hazel.
The figure spoke. “Ego sum morte,” it said.
It happened quick. A white figure flew at him, crying that same awful, inhuman shrill scream, causing Jonathan to fall to the ground. It was a woman, opaque-white and old with a smile that was full of an impish malevolence, as if she were laughing wickedly. The banshee flew through him however, and in an instant was gone.
Jonathan lay prone on the ground, the tall hooded figure over him. It brought down its sickle, and said n a deep, monstrous voice: “Requiescat in pace.”