Mixture of Descriptions

Akhmatora’s poem: where in two lines, the poet shakes her fists then closes her hands in prayer: ‘You’re many years late, how happy I am to see you.’

Longing pushes blade into xxx, up to the hilt

Restrictive chrysalis of childhood

‘I’m in a smoking humour, and I shall probably blaze away all night.’ (Quilp, Charles Dickens Old Curiosity shop.)

Rubbed the side of her head vigorously to pep up the circulation.

Sea-green, russet-brown, shell-pink.

Dark sky smudged with star frost.

Sky bright unsecretive blue.

The wine-dark sea.

Music: weaving its way through the fabric like thread hand-sewn.

She felt a smile flickering to the surface.

Suddenly, an idea flamed in his mind, like a sun rising over strange hills.

Crying harsh ragged sobs, cutting through the room in jagged little bursts.

He had a thin face with cheek bones as high as wings and lines carved deep in the flesh by segments. Great channels of despair slanted down from his nose to jaw, and shadows lay round the eyes like dark mountain pools.

It was a dress spun of spider web and moonlight, weightless as mist.

Fear riddled her, like a shotgun burst in her chest.

Her excitement dimmed in the upsurge of fear.

Pearl-small, moon-pale, ash-white.

A fingernail moon was hanging in the treetop. The night was sizzling with stars.

She gave him a bland look with humour ghosting around her mouth.

Where are you going? She asked. It wasn’t a casual question, but held all the contempt of an accusation.

They stepped out of the clearing and into the trees. Almost immediately the light turned soft and green with only a few stray shimmers of sun sneaking through the canopy of trees. Those thin fingers were pale, watery and lovely. The green covered the world in subtly different shapes, wildly different textures.

Trees whispered sealike in the wind.

Fear pooled in Luke’s chest.

Laura half-laughed, a stain of fear in her voice.

She smothered a yawn with one hand.

Flowers speared and spilled from crystal vases.

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