Describe Someone you know well by how they move through the world

He had such a unique walk that I couldn't help but be drawn to him. There was a bounce and sway with every step that was the perfect mix of an old timey boxer and a kid trying his damndest to see over the top of a crowd. His button-up shirts always wrinkled from never putting his laundry away and just grabbing whatever was clean from the hamper while the dirty clothes remained on the floor. In public, he was the most confident man in the room, always sure of his words and actions, committed to each movement like it could be his last. And maybe it could be. He'd pissed enough people off in this world, you never know.
He isn't the friendly, goofy type. His tattoos and gauges are usually enough to send people the other way. Those brave enough to spend some time around him though, instantly see his charm. When he speaks, he draws in a crowd. You hang on his every word and regardless of how many people are around, because it always feels like he's talking to you.
On his own though, he's not the man he pretends to be. He is never sure of himself but knows that if he showed that weakness, he'd only be prey for the powerful. He's been there and he's seen it for himself too many times. His thoughts are always racing, preparing for the next attack, verbal or physical. His fists, with their deep callouses on every knuckle, sit loose by his sides, always ready. He's been in more fights than he can remember. He never starts them, but he always finishes them. No matter how alert he is awake, he sleeps deeper than the dead. Nothing can wake him when he finally lays down.
He hates being social but he loves to drink. Not a lot, but every day he drinks something. Beer, mules, margaritas, bourbon, something every day.

Describe someone's shoes in 4 sentences or less

Light Grey with 3 white stripes, or at least they used to be. He threw on his beat up high tops like he did everyday. Deep grass stains around the edges from too many times trekking across the quad on his way to class. Bottoms worn smooth but his laces still like the day he bought them. 

Light grey with white laces and the brightest neon pink soles you've ever seen. The pink stays on the bottom though and never crawls up the sides popping up like a firework with every step she takes. Their thin mesh canvas material lets the air flow through them as she runs yet another lap around the track. Still clean like the day she bought them despite running in them every day for the last 2 years. 

Describing an Image

Green was everywhere. Not just one green but every shade of green imaginable. The young praying mantis stood his ground for his final fight. He stood tall and strong on his leaf perch as the beast flew close, winds spread in a semi-circle so wide you could see every feather. The beasts soulless black eyes focused on his final remaining prey. Only one would come out of this fight alive and the odds were not in young mantis's favor. 

Describe a smell without saying what that smell is

It smells like a breath of winter ice or high school classes. It smells like trying to stay awake and first dates. It smells like fear and intimacy, the butterflies clawing their way through your midsection as you lean in to kiss her for the first time.

Write a Beginning Scene

"Do you ever shut the fuck up?" I sighed rolling my eyes at my sister's never ending complaints.
"Look. All I'm saying is-"
"I know what you're saying. We go through this every day"
"Ok but we should move camp south. Somewhere just a little warmer"
"You know why we can't do that"
"I know why you say we can't"
"You've heard the traders! You know what conditions are like down there!"
"We could find somewhere that's isolated still! We don't have to go all the way. What about...like...halfway?"
"No. We've discussed this. We're established here. We have a good thing going. We have a good meeting point with traders and no one can find us or hear us."
"Mom would've let us move."
"Yea, well, mom isn't here anymore. You wanna join her?"
"You wouldn't."
"Try me. You aren't the only one I have to keep alive."
"I hate you."
"I know. Now shut up and gear up"

We live in North Montana. There's a north and south to almost every remaining state. We live the furthest north you can get without being in Canada. You can't get any further north without special permission from the government, and I use the term government loosely. President Something runs things now and he decreed that every female aged 15-19 must serve between 1 and 4 years in service in the White House as a maiden. The females who go though, rarely come back, and when they do, they never come back the same. Most are just permanently scarred by First Lady Analeise. The rest have had one or more children for the President's family, more like child army. Once the children are born, they are never seen again. Shipped off to some factory somewhere is the rumor. The shortage of females leaving his service though means a there's a shortage of children and thus a shortage of new females for the President's pleasure. Now there's a bounty on young girls. And my sister, Amy, turns 15 this week.
We don't know who Amy's dad is but mom had her after being in the President's service. She hasn't spoken a word since she returned. She often just sits and stares at the wall. She'll follow commands if I ask her to do something like eat or bathe and luckily she goes to the bathroom on her own but she doesn't do much else.

Gravestones

Gravestones.

Headstones.

Tombstones.

Just place holders.

Like bookmarks for bodies.

For the dead.

Or for the living?

Two faded, moss covered Gravestones.

Rachel A.

Wife of William Corles.

William Corles

Born June 22, 1834

Died October 10, 1863.

Blessed are the Dead who die in the Lord.

Side by Side,

By the tree with the bench.

The bench dedicated to George L. Doll.

A soldier

Born November 9 1896

Died June 14 1957.

Saved by a girl with a camera.

She feels most at home here,

Alone amongst the dead.

Safest in the silent winter snow.

Right before spring crawls in.

When everything is starting to melt.

The dampness clinging to her breath

Filling her slowly dying lungs with soggy air.

She loves to read here.

On the bench by William Corles

and Rachel A.

Under the pine tree.

Because unlike his housemates,

He doesn't die in the winter.

There's no need to mark his place with a tombstone.

She reads here.

Parts of her die here.

Here, she's somewhere in between.

But she'll go home tonight and return tomorrow.

Someday she'll no longer be a guest.

Until then she loves her gravestones.

Her bookmarks left behind.

Gravestones.

For the living.

For the dead.                                                                                    

And for those somewhere in between.