DESCRIPTIVE WRITING

Busy Market: - The stall canopy trembles with each passer-by’s brush of wind, and a
chorus of shouts threads through the air. A woman in a cobalt sari leans over a crate, fingers
skimming the surface of bright peppers, counting them aloud as if summoning their
memories. A boy darts between legs, balancing a stack of woven rugs on his head, and the
rug edges flutter like startled pigeons. The scent of citrus and smoke hangs heavy,
intermingling with the hiss of a steam-powered cart and the clatter of metal on wood. A
vendor’s bell rings sharply, a customer threads a bargain into the hum, and a chorus of
accents—Tamil, Mandarin, Bengali, Marathi—surges in a single, pulsing wave. Steam curls
from a kettle as samosas steam and crackle, and the crowd surges forward, a living current
pushing toward the stalls, then flicks away as a new opening opens like a doorway to
tomorrow. A child’s cry, another’s laugh, the slap of a palm against wood, the rustle of
paper money—details braid together into the market’s heartbeat.
Bustling stalls spill onto the street, awnings snapping in the breeze as baskets heaped with
peppers and herbs gleam in the sun. A vendor’s voice threads through the crowd: prices,
alms, rumours of rain. A child darts between legs, a mango slipping from a crate and landing
with a dull thud into a waiting palm. The scent of ripe fruit, sizzling oil, and crushed mint
hangs in the air. Shouts, laughter, the clatter of wooden wheels, a goat’s surprised bleat—
colour, noise, and motion fuse into a living map of the market.

A Very Untidy Room: - The room lay in quiet rebellion: piles of clothes formed soft,
uneven hills on the floor, draping over the edge of a chair like a mossy cape. A mug, stained
with yesterday’s coffee, leaned crookedly atop a stack of receipts that fanned out across the
desk in a brittle rainbow of chaos. Crumpled playlists of paper scraps clung to the corners of
the bed, the quilt a mosaic of wrinkles and forgotten intentions. A pencil rolled to a stop
against a sneaker’s toe, then tumbled away, as if the room itself were exhaling in
exasperation. The curtains hung in lazy folds, catching the late afternoon light that pooled
into a sticky glow on every surface, highlighting fingerprints, dust motes, and the stubborn
stain on the dresser mirror. It smelled faintly of laundry and ambition forgotten, a scent that
told you the owner had big ideas—just not enough energy to chase them down.
The room wore a slovenly smile: clothes pooled like jittery puddles on the floor, a clock that
seemed to sigh with every tick, and a desk buried beneath a mountain of papers, cups, and
empty snack wrappers. Light stubbornly refused to reach the corners, so shadows curled in
the corners, where a sneaker protruded from a canyon of laundry. A laptop screen glowed
with a half-finished assignment, its edges rimmed with coffee rings, while a backpack
dumped its secrets—pens rolling out, receipts fluttering like dead leaves. The bed lay in a
ragged atlas of blankets and pillows, as if someone had torn open a map and never
bothered to fold it back. The air carried a faint, stubborn scent of laundry and something
sweeter, almost nostalgic, hiding somewhere under the chaos.

A Loud Classroom: - The room rattles with the shriek of a chalkboard marker as it
scrapes across the whiteboard. A sea of desks trembles when the door hinges slam, and a
flame and smoke, and the sudden, terrible certainty that control was slipping away as the
wall of heat pressed closer, inch by inch, until nothing remained but the orange roar
swallowing the forest and the air that trembled with the heat of oblivion.

A Group of Tourists: - The camera sweeps over a sunlit square, flags fluttering, as a sea
of cameras tilts toward a gilded fountain. A couple pause mid-step, laughter spilling from
their conversation, lenses clicking in a chorus around them. A map unfolds in a tourist’s
hands, creases blooming like white petals as they try to pin the exact same hot spot
everyone else is already photographing. - A backpack strap slips, coins spill from a vendor’s
tin, and a child’s chalk drawing of a rainbow becomes a souvenir their mother frames with a
proud, tired smile. - A guide’s shout is swallowed by the babble of languages: Mandarin,
Spanish, English, German, each voice stacking into a rainbow chorus above the hum of
street musicians and motorbikes. - Food smells—grilled corn, lemon wedges, street-sweet
pastry—curl around the crowd, and a couple trades a corner of their map for a steaming
crepe, savouring the moment as if it might dissolve at the next turn. - A street performer
balances on a crate, hat tipped to collect a storm of coins; tourists lean in, some filming,
some cheering, all sharing a single breath between city and sun. - A father steadies a stroller
as a flock of pigeons disperses at a shout, and the child’s wide eyes track them, the moment
etched in the crease between kinship and wonder. - Petticoats of light slip through the
arches as the crowd threads along the plaza, moving in waves—pause, snap, drift, repeat—
until the spot feels less like a place and more like an assembled memory.

Describe Being On Your Own In a New Place: - The door shuts behind me with a
final sigh, and the apartment exhales its own quiet: a clock ticking in three-quarter time, a
faucet that moans when I twist the knob, and the soft shimmer of a streetlight cutting
across the rug. I set my backpack down and stand still, letting the unfamiliar walls settle
around me like a new accent I’m learning to pronounce. The kettle hums from the
kitchenette as if to remind me I’m not alone in the world, even when the room swallows the
sound of footsteps I don’t hear. An abrupt knock of distant rain against the window taps a
rhythm I recognize from home, yet the scent that arrives with it is alien—cold metal and the
faint burn of something spicy from a nearby street. I hover at the edge of the couch,
pretending I’m someone braver, someone who already belongs here, and I am not. The floor
creaks under a single, uncertain step; I pause, listen, and then take another, slower one, as if
tracing a map I’ve just learned to read. I pocket my phone, scroll no messages, and notice
the city outside beginning to glow—windows sparking to life, doors unlocking with a click, as
if inviting me to try. I swallow, and the night answers with a thousand tiny doors opening
inside me.

Describe A Journey In A Hot Air Balloon: -The burner hissed, a dragon’s breath
warming the dawn as the basket creaked beneath us. Below, rivers stitched themselves into
ribbons of silver, and fields lay in quilted patches of green and gold. The world woke in a
whisper: a hawk wheeled past, wings slicing the pale blue like a bookmark between pages of
a patient morning. I pressed a knuckle to the looping handle that steadied the balloon’s
envelope, feeling the rough weave bite into my palm, a simple reminder that I was about to
float into someone else’s sky. The canvas bell above us stretched taut, a slow, patient drum