Writing exercises!

So, I was searching around on the web for some creative writing assignments to do for school.
And I found a fun one. It had 5 steps, and you just did one step, without knowing the the next one was, and then go to the next step. It didn't always make sense when you were doing it, but at the end it all fit together. So it was pretty cool. Anyway, here's what I came up with from the exercise (I did 2).

(This first one was based on my best friend, Esther):

Her hands are soft, a lighter brown than the rest of her skin color. She has long fingers, with perfectly trimmed fingernails, brown nail polish starting to chip off.
She stretches her fingers, and lets them fly, pushing down the ivory piano keys with a good sense of rhythm.
Her hands are birds, racing through the sky and seeing all that is below them- a small island, full of flowers, tropical fruits, and the sand and surf. A snowy day in Switzerland, seeing the small crystals falling gracefully as feathers.
When her song is over, I walk to her and say, “Good job! Everyone loved you. I only have one question- how do you make your hands and fingers do such wonders on the keys? The sound was so descriptive, it was almost as if I was in the places your music was about.”
She glances up from the grand piano, towards me, and answers, “My fingers do move fast, I suppose, but I exercise them each and every day.”



(The guy in this one is fake. I made 'im up.):


His hands are rough, calloused, from so much work lifting heavy things. The color is tan, with a few red cuts and nicks.
He grasps the horse's reigns with these hands, flicking the thin leather strap across the animal's back.
He not only feels the horse, he is the horse, running and stretching his long legs, as he gallops through countrysides and plains, over majestic mountains, leaping over water-filled gorges, swishing his tail in the hot white sands.
Later, I ask him, “How was your ride? I could see the determination in your hands, but in the far-off look in your eyes, it seemed like you were in some other place.”
He turns around, noticing for the first time that I am there beside him. “Oh,” he says, “Yes, the ride was excellent. And I know, sometimes I grip too hard on the reigns. My hands are aching.”