Writing with Stardust: The Ultimate Descriptive Guide for students, parents, teachers and writers (14 page)

5. The ravishing sky of summer merges into one, great
pantheon
of celestial-blue.

                                                SENSATIONS

1. The grass was feather soft.

2. The grass was eider soft, the texture of cotton.

3.  The lush, summer grass was velvet soft to the touch.

                                                          SMELL

1. A soup of smells came from the corn fields.

2. A brew of smells came from the golden, wheat fields.

3. A buffet of smells emanated from the wholesome, barley fields.

                                                          
TASTE

1. The summer apples were lozenge sweet.

2. The summer pears were citrus sweet and delectable.

3. The bumper summer harvest was manna sent and had a faint hint of marzipan.

                                       
LEVEL 1: BASIC SENTENCES

1. The night sky was
heather-purple
.
COLOUR

2.
Humming bees
darted through the air.
BEE MUSIC

3. The stars were
glittering like scattered space dust
.
METAPHORS FOR THE SUN

4. The
beaked chorus
of birds filled the air.
THE DAWN CHORUS

5. The edible
ceps
looked like shiny penny buns.
EDIBLE FOODS

6. Clouds were latched to the
unending sky
.
THE SWEEP OF SKY

7. The afternoon sky was
cocktail-blue
.
THE BRIGHTEST BLUES

8. The grass was
downy soft
.
SENSATION

9.
A stew of smells
filled the air.
SMELL

10. The summer food was
gelatin sweet
.
TASTE

                                      
LEVEL 2: A BASIC PARAGRAPH

The night sky was
juniper-purple
. The sound of
intoning bees
filled the air. The
stars were glowing
like beacons
for the lost souls of the world. A
feathered medley
echoed through the trees. The garlic smell of
ramsons
drifted through the air. The clouds were bracketed to the
eternal, summer
sky. It was like a dome of
solar blue
. The grass was
silk
soft
.
A
broth of smells
swirled around me. The food we ate was
honeysuckle sweet
.

                                       LEVEL 3: CREATIVE PARAGRAPHS

An
amethyst-purple
tint invades the late summer skies. The world is changing and autumn is approaching. Soon the land will be a-fire in the warm glow of tree-flame. Pagan rituals such as Hallowe’en will bring back long dead memories of trolls, spooks and hobgoblins.

For now, however, the fields are still Elysium-green. Bees are still murmuring in that strange
cult hum
exclusive to them. They flit from flower to flower, surfing the short spaces as they go. The stars are summer stars,
flickering like pulsing lodestars
. A sol-fa of song erupts as they fade away, the
ancient alchemy of the dawn chorus
.

Bilberries
and chanterelles adorn the forest floor, questing for sunlight.
The perpetual skies of summer
are buckled with clouds and they flare up in a luminous,
neon-blue
when the mood takes them. Summer is nature’s treasure trove. The fields are laden with goldenrod-yellow flowers and silver-washed fritillaries carry their bushels of pollen carefully.
A goulash of scents
twirls above the
satin
soft petals
and the
pear sweet taste
of the air is a blessed joy.

But summer brings with it a bitter twist. The nights are closing in on each other and the long days are faltering. Enjoy the beaches, the barbecues and the birds. In a few short months, all will be cold.

                                       
LEVEL 4: ADVANCED PARAGRAPHS

Water, water, everywhere and not a drop to drink. I am doomed.

The wooden planks of flotsam I have cobbled together after the shipwreck are coming loose. I am sitting on a floating coffin with makeshift oars. It’s like Satan’s sauna out here in this big, blue tomb. The emptiness in my soul matches the spiritless sky and the featureless waterscape around me.

The days are the worst. The remorseless sun bends his full will against my survival and he is winning. I feel like I have been stabbed by a million sun spears. My blood simmers, my brain stews, and even my bones seem to smoulder in their meaty carcass. Dead man drifting. That’s who I am. I am floundering in a sea of divine-blue quicklime and there’s no escape. My tongue feels like a slab of lead, cloven to the roof of my mouth. My throat is parched and my lips are chapped and flaky. Only a god could save me now.

Below the surface, huge shapes glide. Their fins break the surface like steel triangles, leaving barely a ripple. They circle and circle, constantly searching for weakness. They have followed me for three days and nights, cruel and cunning as they are. The knife fixed to the end of the oar can only keep them at bay for so long.

The tides are the mistress of the sea. They dictate the level of wind necessary for my forward movement. No tides, no wind, no survive. That’s why I hate the nights. A vast shroud of Barabbas –black fills the abyss of sky above. The wind dies down as the eerie, spectral moon appears. It casts down splinters of Solomon-gold, making the sea crests sparkle like elf-light. It is merely an illusion of beauty. I can see the full glitter of their beady eyes and the flash of their scalpel sharp teeth as they grin at me. The only sounds to keep me company are the sigh of wind, the slap of oar and the slosh of wave. The leavening sea is my enemy. It is as cold as a ghoul’s soul and my teeth are rattling and chattering. The haunting cheep-cheep of a passing tern reminds me how powerless I really am. Even he can go home. The stink of a thousand seas surrounds me. It is a mix of rotting kelp and dying fish. It assaults my nostrils and steals my hope.

But lo! There’s a huge magma-red light in the distance. I am rocked by a huge wave which pushes me towards the light. All the gods are with me. My name is Lucius Andropedus. I am a fisherman from Pompeii and I am lost at sea. It is The Year of Our Lord 79 A.D, somewhere off the coast of Italy, and I am saved.

                      
LEVEL 5: COMPLEX WRITING: SEA MUSIC

The cliff we stood on seemed as old as Abraham. Far below, the hungry sea gnawed at its ankle.

Someone once said that paradise is where seagulls are flying beneath your feet. They were arcing and wheeling between the witchcraft of the morning light. An occasional scream would echo from the cliffs, eerie and resonating. The immense vista leading to the horizon was jaw dropping. The Prussian-blue vault of velvet above seemed to solder into the liquid blanket of silver beneath. Far out to sea, a solitary cormorant, sleek wings a-flurry, streaked out to the place where sea and sky melt into each other and was lost from sight.

The slurpy slapping of the sea was muted, a metronomic murmur. The waves were merely snoozing, sluggish and slumbering in their liquid robes. They dribbled up to the beach of the sheltered cove, then shuddered and drizzled their sea spray onto its surface, whisking the stones before releasing. A current of cold electricity passed through the air. We shivered. The wind whipped up. The sea simmered.

Sloshing, swollen to its confined depths, its cavernous bowels stirred, a growling from the fathoms. Suddenly, stone dashed sand teemed as the sea hissed, washed, polished, and lashed the pebbles before sloshing back. It hissed, slipped, dashed the sand and released; fizzed, spit, seethed the beach and released: sizzed, slapped, swished the stones and released.

The mesmeric beauty of its beat was heart-swelling. We realized then that the sea was its own master, kindling its own symphony. It hadn’t finished its song yet, however. The wind, the midwife of the seas, served a different master and whipped it into a frenzy.

The echo of a raspy rumbling from the enraged sea came to us, a tremulousness to fear. The waves were really sloshing, slurping and slobbering with their salty lips. They pounded into the cliff of the sheltered cove, then paused and pounced with malice onto its ankle, slamming the rock before releasing. A rumour of its malevolence passed through our legs. We shivered. The wind died down. The sea bubbled. Trembling, throbbing to its rotten beat, its malicious soul stirred, a warning from the ages. Suddenly, rip-tide rolls heaved as the sea foamed, crashed, pounded and bashed the cliff-foot before sloshing back. It foamed and frothed, plunged down hard and pummelled the hated cliffs; it lathered and lacerated, bucked waves and buckled itself; it smacked and smashed, surging waves and expunging its awful rage.

Its hissy fit over, it swelled once more, juddered and was still.                         

                                             
ARCHAIC WORDS

An archaic word is an old word from a previous era, one that is no longer in common use
. Using an archaic word in a passage of writing adds an alien glamour to it. It is particularly appropriate to use it when writing about autumn, the mist and medieval battle scenes. Autumn is a season that has a resonance all of its own. In order to truly catch its essence, words like a-flame, eldritch and aeons should be used. That is because autumn reminds us of the
atavistic pulse
. This is my phrase for the memories we have built into our DNA of collecting hazelnuts, picking blackberries and fishing for salmon. Traces of those memories still exist, to a lesser or larger degree, in most of us.

Similarly, the mist has a fey and primeval quality to it that cannot be compared to any other aspect of nature. It can glow with an unearthly sheen or it can obscure whole forests and meadows with its otherworldly veil of grey. Medieval battle scenes are a great way to encourage the use of archaic words also. It is my experience that students love the texture and primeval feel of words such as
jousting
knights,
argent
-silver armour and
caterwauling
cries. A good suggestion is to get them to keep a ‘new vocabulary’ notebook, as I do. They can then keep a special section at the back of it for archaic words. The definition of the archaic words may be written in as they come across them. Using archaic words will give any passage of writing the atavistic and primordial quality needed to make it unique.

  ‘EN’ ARCHAIC WORDS     ‘BE’ ARCHAIC WORDS        OTHERS TO USE