From ‘Imaginative Writing’ by Janet Burroway (4th Edition):
Try this 2.1:
“Pick two words and invent an image that suggests each word.”
E.g: Rumble, Sick.
It was a sound that was most unnerving, that it nearly made the very ribs in my chest shake and involuntarily cause the pit of my throat to itch. It was a sound that instantly made me hungry, as it egged my stomach on to reciprocate the noise. It was a sound so deep that if made close enough to the ground, small pebbles might toss and turn with the low-frequency of the vibrations. It was at that moment that I knew I could not forget, accept, or forgive it. When I look at him, all I can think of is that disgusting, deafening, ogre-like belch he made on our very first date. I cannot move on from this moment, and I cannot see him in a different light. There will not be a second date.
You knew today was not going to go as accordingly to plan as you first intended. All sniffles turn to snuffles, and all snuffles turn to snortles. It just had to happen on the day of your big interview. You read somewhere online that hot honey-water helps, but you desperately needed that lemon-juice to get rid of the rusty, rotten pasta taste off of the back of your slimy tongue. You know? That taste that comes with sleeping while rivers of phlegm drip down your throat in the night, giving you a belly-ache in the morning. Should have gone with the honey-water; now you’re not only snortling, but you’re also vibrating your tonsils together as if you’re trying to start up a stubborn lawn-mower. As you try to present yourself as… graciously as possible to the interviewer, you can’t help but notice their glance constantly dropping to your nose: You think there’s an endless stream of liquid pouring out of each nostril, but you’ve rubbed the skin so raw there that you can’t actually feel a thing. In truth, they are just distracted by the fact that you could guide Santa’s sleigh in the most blistery of white-winter nights.