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Challenge of the Week LXXXVII
Descriptive Writing. One of the four foundational elements of the written word. You can write about anything you want, poetry or Prose; but make sure to focus on your descriptions. Whether you're describing a character, a setting, or an emotion, we want the imagery to leap out of the page. But tread lightly - there is such a thing as too much description. We're looking for that perfect balance. Imagery that sings, but doesn't scream.
Jimwebct
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Rockland Heights, 1944

The shoddy wooden shell may have endured longer in the humid swampland night, were it not blasted by pressure of the algae-rich water siphoned from of Berguson’s Pond, cannoning from the huge brass fire nozzle. The blazing structure crumbled quickly after the water hit with a muffled crash, the roar of pressurized water moderating all sound. The results were the same as if the family home were left to burn out naturally; nothing but black, smoking, hissing char left, with points of burning embers dotting the charcoal where the spark remained. Two grim faced firemen in bulky fire retardant suits with heavy iron helmets and clear face masks searched methodically and awkwardly through the smoldering ash, clumsily looking for remains of the child not accounted for, the care exhibited akin to an archeological dig, very gentle exploration, as if the child might be reassembled like the remains of something from the Paleolithic age. They stooped at intervals to examine lumps of charcoal, silently aching to come up empty, while listening to the roped-off crowd wail, the missing child’s parents’ lamentations keening above all others, louder than any of the distraught neighbors and looky loos that no one in the crowd even knew. One fireman prayed to the Son of his God, his savior. The other didn’t acknowledge Jesus but prayed to the God he learned in Temple. Both had to stop frequently to remove the mask and wipe their tears away. As the volunteer firemen continued their grim avocations, the sounds became a dissonance of the crunch of boots over the charcoal remains, the hissing of the water still at its work, and the howling of the crowd at the periphery of the disaster, the combined sounds creating a veritable roar.

And suddenly, the only sound piercing the night was that of a child, a small child, pestering her parents the way children do; “Mommy. Mommy. What is happening here?” And the wail of the crowd again pierced the dark humid night, this time in celebration. The missing child had returned to the fold of her parents.

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