a cold night - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
A cold night gives us ever more reason to draw closer to one another, to feel the natural warmth we are born to give.
Frost grew over the windows even as the duvet kept me warm. I watched the ice-crystals grow for a while, allowing my brain to be empty, content to exist and be. The morning would bring the beauty of the ice for sure, that crunch under boot and the bold greeting cold air brings. Yet between now and watching my breaths rise as new white-puffed clouds there will be a very cold night. The kind that only stops at the doors of the well-made houses.
It is the type of coldness that reaches into my bones, as if my heart were a door left wide open to the icy wind, slamming only to open again. The only thing to do is keep moving, keep heading toward home and the steady warmth of the hearth. The sky is rolling blanket of cloud the colour of wet ash, and the ground its dank reflection. Each step becomes a prayer for home as we walk, seeing the light from the doorway in our flickering daydreams, letting it become more real than the stormy night.
I have underestimated the cold tonight, not like me at all, and I can’t run with this load to warm. I’m marching but the night air is wicking my heat away faster than my body can replace it. I could turn back of course, but then what if Darwin wakes? What then? I leave him screaming at the door? No thanks. Right now he’s asleep, or at least I have no reason to think that he isn’t. The blocks pass in a blur, no-one but me is out tonight. Just when I think everyone got their trades in the market and went home, two Happy Boys round the corner, typically muscular and tall...
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by .
Night had fallen fast upon the land. No more than an hour ago the sky was painted with hues of red, orange and pink, but all colour had faded leaving only a matt black canvas with no stars to be looked upon. The darkness was thick and the torched he carried in high right hand hardly lit his path allowing him to see at most an arm’s reach in front of himself, and the black mesh that covered his face only made his sight worse.
Other than the darkness and himself all that seemed to exist was the chilly wind that’s harsh bite could be felt through his cloak. He could feel the hairs on his arm raised and the bite of the wind had left its mark in the form of small bumps that were tingling on his arms, but its bite was more than flesh deep. His blood ran cold through his veins and his bones were chilled. The flames of his torch may have looked as though they burned warm, but their heat did not reach his skin.
The cold onshore breeze blew right through Amy's sweater and she bowed her head to one side, closing lashes weighed down with mascara to keep out the salty sting. The dampness of the sand was making its way though her skinny jeans and she hugged her knees close. Her hair fell loose about her face, tousled, tangled. Under the fading sun it appeared brown, the honey blonde streaks lost to the night. She could hear the waves lapping like the ticking of a more leisurely clock, but never telling her the time, never demanding that she move on. When more light came from the moon than the sun, she stood and walked over the cool black sand to the inky water, letting it kiss her toes through her socks. The frigid brine quickly wicked up into the wool and soon her feet were icy.
The fading of the sunlight had also meant the fading of the heat. Wintry air swirled around River taking every lick of warmth it could. He wrapped his arms tighter around himself, pulling his coat closed and tucking his chin downward into his pullover. His breath was now only visible under the sporadic streetlights, the few which still lit up the decaying city. As he walked from the east end to the north, he felt the icy sidewalk beneath his boots for the first time that season. With hours left before dawn and the air smelling of overdue rain, River quickened his pace.
Through the fall the only problem at night was the blackness, some nights even the stars had been hidden behind a wall of foreboding cloud. As they moved on toward winter those nights drew longer, eager to arrive, reluctant to pass. No longer could they sleep in the open with only their thin clothes for cover and each other for warmth. The nights were as ferocious as a dip in the frozen lakes would be, taking their body heat until their lips blued and teeth chattered. There were times Lorna began to tremble uncontrollably and they knew finding shelter was a matter of life and death. Those frosty New Hampshire mornings they'd found so bewitching as children sapped at their spirits and every day that passed they watched the trees for signs of spring.
It would be a cold moonless night. The sky was dark and low, the air so chilled it hurt to breathe. Already the ground was laid white with frost and any water that had been liquid under the winter sun had become ice.
Night came like the spell of an enchantress, water to stone, earth to iron, green grass to frosted white. There was no hint of warmth left, nothing of the autumn or the kiss of the vanquished sun. The hours promised to pass slowly yet steal their body heat with indecent speed.
The night came whispering sweet nothings, luring heat from tired muscles until they could rest no more. It caressed their skin until it stole the pink blush and replaced it with blue. Above was the beauty of the stars, the clear night allowing the meagre heat of the day to leave unhindered. The only notion of brightness came from a full moon, and even her light was a chilled silver beam.
The canyon did nothing but channel the cold air and hide the moon. The chill wind tugged at their clothing and whipped loose hair about their faces, bringing with it the first of the rain that had been promised since supper. Their newly wet skin offered their body heat to the frigid air, only to find its appetite was insatiable. Ahead was a low rock outcrop, their only chance for shelter. Travis lead the way jamming their backpacks in first to block the howling wind.
The house is no warmer inside than out. As the daylight fades ice creeps across the windows as if spun by wintry spiders. The only warmth to be had is from River's own body, he curls up on the filthy floor, hands buried deep between his thighs. Wind rattles the guttering and rain beats against the single pane window- the dark lullaby of an abrupt storm. However uncomfortable this abandoned house will be until dawn, the alternative is infinitely worse.
The night comes with such a bitterness that the rutted brown fields take on the appearance of a sugared cobbler under the moonlight. The cold steals every bit of water from the air it can in its frenzy to frost over the countryside.