Rubical discussion

Here we are again with Description Challenge #1!
This starts NOW (1/4/2020) and ends the morning of 1/13/20!

The rules are simple.

1. Look at the picture provided as closely as you can--take in all the details of everything you can.

2. Write out the best description you can of the picture in whatever style you possess or enjoy the most. Descriptions must be from 150-250 words in length. It just must describe the picture.

3. Post your description below in the time frame given above--I will be closing it on time.

4. After that, we'll vote for who's best through a poll I'll send out and the winner goes to the Wall of Champions ⚔!

Post below!

Photo: https://i.pinimg.com/564x/0d/c7/34/0d...

"Orange Hues"
By: Penny

Violent reds and oranges; the same wispy colors of sunset, but hardened to rust on a tired boat's skin. Long gone were the bright white wooden boards and the shiny new deck, worn down by decades of work and weather. The bold black letters painted along the bow were beginning to peel. Point Reyes. This tired boat sighed, emitting tiny puffs of smoke, mere memories of the monstrous clouds of smoke it used to produce.

Abandoned years ago, this once great ship passed days by remembering the time of his youth. Men hard at work, jubilant music, boisterous laughter, dancing couples...shadows of these danced back and forth across the ragged decks before fading along with the fading sun. Soft orange sunlight bathed the ship—so unlike the harsh orange rust that coated the hull. Sick of being stuck on a tiny strip of marsh, unable to move and rock in the water like it used to, Point Reyes gazed wearily at the sun as it sank slowly beyond the horizon.

By: Shayna Stypes
"Treasure in heart; the boat"

This boat was abandoned, with no way to stretch its “legs”.
A boat always has a master at its steering wheel. Except, this boat no longer had a master.
The sunset rose, and the boat sat, day after day, night after night. No place to go. No place to call home. Sure, the ocean is always a boat’s home, but the boat couldn’t even recognize it as an ocean anymore. For, what are the point of an ocean’s waves if you are stuck sitting still?
The boat didn’t always feel this way. There was a time in it’s life where children would climb aboard, and they would laugh when an occasional wave slapped at their face. There was also a time when the boat experienced hardships. He’d seen sailors die at sea.
Oh, the boat had become rustic. To others, the boat held no value. It had even become vandalized. No one saw the boat as a vintage treasure anymore. No one stared at the boat anymore with a longingly gaze.
But the boat’s shades of orange still continue to shine in the sunset. Not the fancy, polished kind of shine you were probably envisioning, for this was not a perfect boat. This was a boat that had a peeling sign that said “Point Reyes”. But the sign still made the boat special. And even though the boat was alone, and even though it squeaked with pure sadness, the boat always knew he was a treasure to behold.

My name is Point Reyes, but you can call me “Old Rey”. I admit I’m showing my age, but I am over 100 years old. I can’t stand straight, I’m riddled with scars and my days of glory are over. But I’ve had a rough life and I think I’m doing pretty good.

I’ve been through many storms. Buffeted with strong winds and waves so high they almost destroyed me. That’s how I became crippled. Why I can’t dance upon waves, glide across still waters or even move an inch.

And my great desire, my very reason to exist, to shelter weary travelers is stripped from me. If you haven’t guessed yet, I’m a steamboat runup on a sandbar. But I’m lodged above a shallow pool so crystal clear that my entire body has a replica mirrored in the water below me. And when the sun begins to set and the vivid orange-red rust that covers my body is mirrored in the pool below, for one breathtaking moment, the world is alive with my colors.

People come from miles away just to take my picture. Then they picnic nearby just to look at me longer. They ponder my tragedies, acknowledge my determination, admire my longevity and consider me beautiful. The Hero of the Tides once again.

But what I don’t understand, if people can do that for me, just an object that will eventually blow away forever, … why can’t they do the same for each other?

by Laura-Lee

Brave Little Boat

Ah, the poor craft.
I gazed in disbelief at the damaged Point Reyes, lying on its side upon the strip of land. As I looked, I saw a faint wisp of smoke rising from the cabin.
Turning to my companion, a fisherman who had accompanied me, I eyed him quizzically.
"Captain Sam, what's that boat doing there and why is it so ugly?"
He rested the oars in their locks, and faced me.
"Missy, that there boat's had a history. Years ago a crew of fisherman took it out and fished, until a hurricane came one night, and tossed it skyhigh. All the crew were swept off, but one who roped himself to the rail. When the hurricane had calmed down, the little craft stuck on that strip of land. The last sailor was picked up a day later, exhausted and drenched, and in those years, the paint was worn down by the sun, and the metal rusted. But to me, Missy, it was the hardiest craft that ever sat atop water. I was the man surviving, and that is my boat.
Just before I picked you up, I brewed tea on the stove in there. That's why the smoke is rising- it's really the steam from the big kettle. Won't you have a cup with me?"
"Yes, Captain Sam." I said, smiling. "now I don't dislike the look of the craft so much- knowing what a brave little thing it was, and that it belongs to you!"

This competition is closed.