Water Water Everywhere: Rain, River, Puddle and Sea!
--- Creative Mood Writing on Water ---
Descriptionari.com
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. Water is the star of this page. From the relaxing chatter of a brook, to the raging of a rainstorm or whipped up waves, this great symbol of truth washes power through our writing.Â
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Written by Angela Abraham in 2024
Drip! Drop! Splash! Trickle! Gush! Rush!
 ----Creative Mood Writing On Water---
Example One:
Water awoke winter-slumbered land with her merry song. She tickled the seeds with the stories of aeons gone, stories of long before Earth's birth to the dawn of man; then onward through their thick histories of peace earned by War’s bloody hand. The seeds, as happy audience, did swell and grow at pace. Though of all the tales of stars, of far flung galaxies, those of heroes' hearts were loved best of all. Water, you see, is a story-keeper, a bard without limits, a reteller of lore. So next time it rains, listen, listen well, for you too may hear her whispered repertoire.
Wonderful Water in Mirthful Mood
Example Two:
Water of ice-memory hugged pebbles sharp and smooth, distinguishing neither-nor and promptly hither-thither spun as a concussed ballerina troupe. Spring Sun shivered in Old Man Winter’s gasp-gust, his final farewell ice-lashing. Trees in resurgent gaiety grew greenest buds, arboreal limbs a-waving, a-dancing, playing unseen viola strings. Flowers lit fuses to silken fireworks, awaiting their silent booms, anticipating eyes applause. Air was aromatic laughter. Light was warmest jollity. Soothing rain came as countless comforting hands, countless companions to the scene. All of this sat in Leah’s heart as a soulful memory, returning as a once lost lamb.
Wallowing Water in Morose Mood
Example Three:
Lonely water puddles grew thin skins at the rotten bus shelter. Their silvery edges soaked into the beams, softening their integrity. Nails rusted and bled. Years-stressed plastic cracked. Its wind battered sign age-blistered beneath grime, grime toxic smog bequeathed, grime obscuring its letters. At times the puddle faces trembled as heavy traffic thundered by. Otherwise the spot was desolate, abandoned, morose. That’s why they picked it, I suppose. A place only changed by weeds and decay, by layers of filth and the largesse of storm clouds.Â
Example Four:
Water was not water, eddy flicking as serpent tongues in those days of bad magic. It moved not as the natural river, yet whiplashed in icy congealing sinews, as if destined to arrest as a heart attack clot. Even in a world that shunted endlessly between twilight and gloam, beneath a sky of ever bruised low cloud, its sallow taint smirk-winked as it rumbled deep and low. All about it life lost its vibrancy, lost robust health, failed to thrive and began its precipitous nose dive. No! No! No! Water was not water, yet a poison in a long parched desert, an anti-oasis, a cruelty.Â
