How would you write this visual into your book? What elements would you focus on, and what would you ignore... what would you change?

Write a paragraph or two translating this image into your best prose.

Arriving from downstream, the shack came into view, as solid as it was when it was built in his great grandmother's day. The wood, that he had helped nail up seven years ago, had aged to a firm, solid, grey. His granmother had decided not to paint it, and while dissapointed at the age of fifteen, he now agreed that the color made it look as though it belonged here.

Not caring about getting his feet wet, he splashed across the stream. Cool water soaked his shoes, relieving some of the discomfort of the long walk. Stones, water worn smooth, shifted under his weight. He didn't see many fish, only the small minnows that swam in the slower shallows at the banks, but he knew that further upstream were deeper waters, perfect for larger fish.

Breathing deeply of green tasting air, he could feel the heavy weight of his life dropping away. This place, so important to a troubled, young man, had made a difference to him, and now it was truely his.

He walked up to the shack, placing his hand on one of the many aspen that shaded the little valley. Up above a jay screamed it alarm at seeing him. He laughed, cupped his hand and called back, or at least tried to. The bluejay took flight at his undignified squak.

He walked up to the building, the narrow wooden walk creaking under his weight. He took the key out of his pocket, and opened the lock that hung on the door.

Very nicely done. I think I would have seen something similar to the picture with you guidance. Cool.

I still want to do one of these myself. Just haven't felt inspired yet.

Beautiful Shadowflame!

"Can I help ye laddy?" The old woman asked, busily arranging glass jars of candy on the counter.
"Do you know of any old houses, or shacks around here? I need somewhere to lay low for a while."
The woman looked up then, her blue eyes still bright and shrewd in her weathered face.
"Ye be hiding from someone? Lots o' talk about thieves lately," she said.
"No, it's, personal reasons. I just need to be alone for a while," the man said.
"The old Miller place is empty, I think. It's quite a bit out in the woods, and you'll be very alone, but it's worth it," the woman said.
"Isolation would be perfect. Does it, how do I say this, have a peaceful feeling, spirit, something, to it?" He asked, his voice soft.
"Couldn't ask for more. It's old, the wood is grey and rough now. The trees have grown about it. I don't think there would even be a trail for you to follow."
"So no one can find me?" He asked.
"Not unless they are hunters used to these woods. And the door opens onto the stream, so you will have the sound of that also. It is kind of small, so don't take a lot of gear."
"I don't have one. I'll be roughing it."
"Just take lots of blankets, the ceilings are pretty high, and the nights get cold out there. Plenty of deadwood for the fireplace though."
"How much does it cost?"
"The family is long dead, no one owns that land now. Just leave wood in the bin, and the place clean. Be careful out there sonny."
"Don't worry good mistress, it would be a foolish beast that came after me. Thank you for your hospitality." The man said, slinging his pack over his shoulder.
The woman watched him walk out the door of the country store, past the men sitting on the porch in their old rocking chairs, and down the rutted road. As he disappeared into the distance, she muttered a prayer for him and turned back to her counter to serve the next customer.

Folks around these parts, they say the old woman killed her baby and dropped her in the creek. If you see the house, you can almost tell that somethin' terrible done happened up there; it looks evil, even in the broadest daylight. Like a troll all dressed in green, my wife says. Course, back then, things were different. There was hunger in the winter, see, and sometimes in the summertime, too. And she was never rich, she wasn't. And gettin' a son at her age, why, it's a wonder she lived all the way through. But then, people said she had witchin' skills, even then.

Anyways, we call the stream Cradle Creek, these days. For the son, see. Only cradle that boy ever knew.