A ten minute writing exercise I did based on a photograph.
The slant of light through the window cast the room in lurking shadows. Dark shapes hovered just outside, twisted and knotty. A howl of wind torn straight from the mouth of fear battered the doorway. But there, just below the rain soaked glass, an image appeared. Wispy, pale, like a warm breath on the coldest night of winter. She hovered, my lone beacon of tenuous hope. Her skirts were transparent, her face nothing more than a memory long forgotten. When she faded like a message drawn in a fogged up mirror, she left the scent of flowers, cloying as rotten fruit.
All the best,