Water - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The water moves softly around my outstretched fingers, caressing cooly, eddying in their wake. I pull my hand out and watch the drips, both transparent and opaque at the same time. They fall as if snatched by gravity to the saline below, each one swiftly haloed by ever-growing rings, distorting the pebbled sea-bed. In the breeze my hand is cold, yet my back is warmed by the early summer sun. Here I could stay all day were it not for the rumbling of my stomach and the aroma of fried fish from near the dock...
I wonder if I would ever notice water, had I been born in the oceans with fins for limbs. I suppose then it would have been my air and I would have moved within it more easily than a bird in the sky. As it is, I love dive within those salty formless arms and feel the freedom it gives, transparent and blue, soft and strong.
You can hear the sound of light footsteps echoing in the cave with the waves hitting the shore, grazing my toes and washing the rocks. The sea was so clear; it looked like tiny little glass pieces were encrusted with different types of fishes and shiny diamond corals reflecting the rising sun.
reproduces the clouds in
a sapphire sky
A pebble falls from
my now open hand into
the once smooth water.
Ripples break the grand
illusion of dreaming that
diving, I could fly
The water lies sleek on the sidewalk, darkening the sun-bleached grey to a glossy black. In the almost twilight Erin can hear the hiss of the car tires, kicking up a mist of fine droplets. It is a promise of the fall to come and automatically her eyes flick to the trees for confirmation but the leaves are already loosing their colour to the encroaching night. She makes a mental-note to remember to look up on the way to the bus in the morning, assuming she gets up on time and isn't late as usual.
The water was so cold it stung. Every touch stole Tom's heat, leaching away a few more fractions of a degree to take him closer to hypothermia. It wasn't just the rain either, it was the water that swelled at his feet, unable to soak into the already saturated ground. It crept up the fabric of his pants, clamping the icy fibres to his already frigid skin.
The water is cloudy, chlorinated and warmer than my hand. The surface lacks the usual tension, possibly from the weight of fine debris. Knowing what the dust around here is made from after the bombings it makes me gag just to think of drinking it, but what else is there? I close my hand tighter around the glass and raise it off the table toward my cracking lips. It's people soup. I lower it un-drunk, my throat now leathery and coarse. Even if there were another person around to speak to I doubt I could utter a shound. Perhaps if I can make it to the mountains there will be glacier melt water, blue, clear, cold. I won't make it like this though, not beyond thirsty and well into dehydration. In one motion I raise the glass and chug it down before clasping both hands over my mouth to keep it in.
The water was uncommonly clear, so much so that it was impossible to gauge the depth. The rocks below could be ten feet down or forty; one depth was dive-able and the other was not. Instead Jake tried to guess from her temperature, his logic being that deeper water would be colder, but with a hot sun overheard he'd have to dive past the upmost layer to find out and then he might as well kick for the bottom 'till his ears popped.
The water envelops me as closely as my own skin. Every new sore stings with the salt being washed in, but it is the only way to avoid infection. I wince as it swirls without mercy, penetrating to the cells that should be protected by smooth skin but lie open and raw. After the initial surge of pain it ebbs and I can even enjoy my newfound weightlessness for a while, before Simon comes to say it's time to get dry before the heat of the day has gone. With great reluctance I place my palms on the edge of this sea-water tank and push down hard and fast. The briny me-stew splashes onto the concrete in lines of spray as I move into the outstretched towel...
The water sits cooly in the glass before me, condensation beading the outside. I run my finger around it as if slicing the top off and watch the transparent "blood" drip to the pristine mirrored table below. In this white on white room of feminine perfection that my mother has created I want to paint the walls red, but I am forbidden to drop even a crumb lest I spoil her magazine cover replica of relaxation.
The water shone like a molten mirror. It had lost its turquoise to the night but in the moonlight the ripples twisted; as if the sea below them was shivering to loose the summer rays. Yet to my feet the warmth was still there, cocooned in the sub-aqua currents. It was all the invitation I needed to dive in, swim deeply into the welcoming blackness and leave my troubles bobbing on the boat above.
The water swirls turbid and brown. In that soup of mud and debris washes away the hopes of our farmers and thus the village as a whole. How we had prayed for the rain to kiss our parched soils, for that precious water to ignite life into the fields, then how we prayed for it to stop. But the droplets fell thick and fast, rendering us unable to see even a few yards ahead of us at a time and turning the river to swollen tyrant, it's surface pitted with millions of drops. It wasn't long before it burst its banks and flooded that land. Now sky is clear, the air merely moist, but the water recedes stealing the fertilizers and the seeds along with it.
Light dappled, flowed sluggishly, gush, rushing, babbling brook, flood, roar, trickle, sprinkle, frigid, icy, cool, eddied the stream, current, quickening stream, sparkling, bubbling, boiling, scalding, clear, fresh, salty, murky, muddy, dirty, green, clean, urban waterway, ripples in widening circles, splash.
Though the lettering was no doubt clear, it was distorted to the point of illegibility by the water above. The wind that gusted gave the surface the look of shattered glass, each tiny facet both reflecting a portion of the wintry sun rays and refracting the rest. The only way to read it was to get below the surface, to dive in, but in these conditions it was suicidal; if the currents didn't get you the temperature soon would. Eric cursed. This could be the clue they'd been looking for and he didn't want to come back another day or risk Samson's crew finding it first.