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The Old Stove-Top Kettle Writes in Steam-Lyrics
--- Creative Mood Descriptions on Kettles ---
Mood writing is evocative of the great classical writers, the masters of yesteryear. In The Mood Book's pages we absorb their craft via creative prose examples. An old stove-top kettle is the star of this page. The real muse was my own stove-top kettle with its bright orange enamel and retro style. I can assure you that it has no mood, and is never scary, sad, happy or adventurous. Yet with the glory of personification, mood writing really sings!
Written by Angela Abraham in 2024
Creative Mood Writing Staring An Old Whistling Kettle
--- Descriptions that Bubble! ---
A Scary Halloween Kettle Festers in the Grim
‘Twas the sallow orange of rotting jack o’lanterns, that flame-scarred kettle. In the hut, long devoid of either gasoline or electricity, it was a cold and dead thing. Splatters of long digested meals were burnt-on moles, not pretty as freckles are, yet a blight on its enamel. Its handle bore grease. The spout cover hung loose. Capless, the open top gap-tooth, under shadow’s breath, was a gleeful monster gape. Leah backed away, taking in a sharp juddering breath.
Example One:
Example Two:
The kettle was dried-blood brown, as reddish as rust upon iron infested steel. Sallow in the dim, it warped into an eyeball, watching, staring. Leah blinked. No. Just an old and cold stove-top kettle - barely different to a pot or pan. Closer. Closer, she edged. With a shaking finger she poked it. Screech. It grated across the burnt grease hob. Tap. Tap. To the striking of her nails it had a tinny hollow ring. Smoke and mirrors. Jump and growl. This entire stinking pit was one hoax after another.
The stovetop kettle whistled in the sunshine. Ready! Ready! Time for tea! It was the sweet hue of summer oranges, the kind you find on market stalls with the leaves attached. Light kissed, it had the same shine as happy eyes. Its retro curves soothed, its styling from a simpler time. Nana took it, lifting it clean from the hob and poured, her hand appearing softer through the filter of steam.
Example Three:
A Merry Mood Kettle Whistles of Joy
The stove kettle was birthday-cake bright. Its enamel was the sweetest orange hue, the kind that brought scoops of summer sorbet to mind. Leah loved to hear it sing. She loved its simple form and how old-school it was. She even loved it’s freckles of yesterday's pasta sauce. Once it was the same as all the others in the store, now it was hers and all the more special.
Example Four:
Example Five:
A Kettle Written in Salty Tear-Ink, in Melancholy Mood
The stovetop kettle sagged upon a mass of cold spills. A thousand fingerprints and never a shining cloth, it became duller with each spin of the clock. Were it ever moved, it moan-clanked, only to languish upon different dirt. Its once chrome shine was a sorry smear of grime. Cold it was, cold it stayed. Dust motes plastered it with the hurry of the grave digger. It wasn’t going anywhere. Days, years, eons - what difference did it make?
Example Six:
It was a desolate sight, alone on a long cold stove, the oldest of old fashioned kettles. It had forgotten the last time it sang. It could not recall the feeling of warmth. The memories of dancing with fire had crumbled. The last of its water had evaporated as long ago dried tears. This was its lament and fate. Or, it would have been, had Leah not arrived.
Example Seven:
This Kettle is Wants to Explore! To Climb Mountains and More!
The kettle steam was a winding road, rising in the dawn-lit kitchen. Leah watched it, enchanted as it began to sing. Her inner eye saw a mountain road, one woven of the highest clouds. She poured her tea and sighed, glancing at her hiking boots. Her little dog bounced around her feet, circling with canine excitement. Yip! Yip! Let’s go! Let’s go! The day is young, the path awaits! She grinned wide and nodded, “Sure, Toto, sure. Whyever not?”
Example Eight:
A sky-blue kettle was a choir of one upon the stovetop, having its daily dance with the flames. In the maturing light of afternoon, it reflected the windows as sweet curving eyes. Jiggle-jog. Jiggle-jog. One could hear the water enlivening before it bubbled hot. Leah’s eyes found the window and the spring flowers beyond. Birdsong arrived as kite-strings. After tea, she’d explore on her own agenda.
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