abandoned building - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The chalky paint fell in fragments leaving the splintered door a bare tarp. It whined on its amber hinges as my palm pressed gingerly against its moist frame. Ivy gnarled its way through broken windows, tangling its leathery shape throughout the wistful abode. The undefinable source of darkness draped over the walls like a tapestry as I took a wary step over the rotting oak floors.
From the street it looks like nothing. There's just weary double doors painted racing green. They're closed, which means nothing. Each door has a closer on the top. The door has some bullet holes in it though, that's not so good. Maybe the shooter took up residence here. I shouldn't go in, not even alone, but there's part of me that's indignant that anyone else is in there. It's mine dammit. So we go in anyway, but not storming in like a an old SWAT team. We go in slow, silent. The air inside is different. I can't put my finger on why for a moment. Then it occurs to me, the smell of sweat is gone, the sound of the fighters beating the snot our of each other is gone. But that isn't even the worst of it. Dad's not here. This is place is just walls without him, walls and floor mats. I cast my flashlight around and there he is; whoever broke in didn't want black and white photos of some old man. I let my beam linger, taking in his smile, blissfully ignorant of the future I now live in.
Gordon rested his hand on the aging concrete and studied it like the random hair-line cracks had meaning. His eyes flickered over it before he spoke, his voice gravely and low. "This was a mall back when I was a kid, back in the days when the goods came in from overseas and we never asked where they came from, who made them or what the real cost was. It was like Christmas everyday, and all you had to do to participate was give up the best years of your life to some job you didn't believe in." Behind him Jacob stuffed his hands into his pockets, not really sure he wanted to hear about the "old days" all over again. It was bad enough his Dad could only afford to have him trained as a road sweeper when all he dreamed of was painting flowers; but his Dad wasn't finished. "It was like a cathedral really, we all went to feed our souls and came out poorer in every way. I know your generation will condemn us for the mess we made; but life was so fast back then, all of us competing and fearful.
This building that was once a beacon of its age now resembles something that has been through a war. Nothing so dramatic has befallen it, just more years that can be counted without feeling the loosening of the mind. These skyscrapers stand gaunt in the shell that was downtown, amid the plants that swallow them back into the ever thickening boreal forest. What was once a tower of steel and concrete is now a ruin, roofless, windowless and pounded by every rainstorm and snow fall that has been here since the time our civilization hit the brick wall we'd been running at for so long, like a marathon runner who refuses food and drink. Stepping inside the daylight of mid-spring is replaced by the shadows that cast the walls even more grey and the air that should be dank is still fresh. It has the feel of an old castle with none of the charm. Long ago this floor must have been a polished marble, even now there are patches that show through the encroaching mud and leaf detritus.
It was a complete mess, to put it nicely. From outside the boarded windows, the shabby wood paneling and the pealing door that was bolted with iron rods, all looked scary and threatening enough to keep the limited number of villagers away. However behind the scary exterior the innards where equally destroyed, if not worse off.
There were no doors separating the rooms on the ground floor yet they could be found a few feet into each room often with large chunks torn out of them, large scratch marks creating cross hatched patterns and occasionally there was still paint left clinging to the worn wood. Surprisingly most of the furniture had survived with minimal damage, only a few scratches and chips to their name. There was only one rickety staircase leading to the first floor, again the same long scratch marks could be seen all the way us the wall opposite the worn, beaten banister.
The first floor was in a considerably better state than the ground floor with all doors still in their rightful places, however the paint clinging to them, once colourful, now many shades of yellow. A thick layer of dust settled on every thing in sight giving the place an atmosphere of being untouched for many years, unlike downstairs where the dust hung in the air clearly disturbed at a regular occurrence.
The only light source for the dank, dark building were the cracks within the roof and barricades over the windows throwing stripes of light into the near destroyed building, that every month housed a beast so ferocious that it rips and tears at it's own skin.
There stood a lone structure, reaching the sky...it was left disregarded with no one near it. overtime the bricks had weakened, the paint wore off and layers of dust coated over it. the building surely looked aged.
It had been abandoned but was taken over by pigeons fluttering in the rooms and nesting by the windows, spiders building webs and bats sheltered here for the night
The paint over the soft wood is deep like the way mother spreads her cream cheese. The flakes peel at random depths showing different sun-baked hues underneath. In this way, in its decrepitude, the old bakery has become more beautiful. The door, once cherry red, is just the same, though the peelings are all shades of a pink that surrendered to the high August sun year after year. It will move on its hinges still, but with the weariness of of an old man. It creaks, the moan echoing to the rafters that still fight the sagging roof above. The windows no longer beckon light inside, no longer lift the gloom that the walls impose. Instead they add to the growing sense of damp and dark and permit the chill wind to penetrate.
My footsteps echo throughout the empty halls. Flickering lights left on aluminate the pathway just enough to see by. Water drips somewhere, creating a hollow pinking noise that is impossible to ignore. I keep walking, not getting anywhere. The walls shift and creak and the looming emptiness of the building is unavoidable. The barrenness of the whole thing sits on my back, an unnecessary pressure. I shudder with the overhanging dampness and press forward through the murky hall.
All around me, the withered mortar peeled off like a molting snake. Despite my fear of the oppressing place, the mere sight of a decaying home served with a bitter sweet wonder. I crept through the battered skeleton of the dead building with awe. Nothing was left from the once fine interior but a scattering of debris buried in filth. The vile odour of damp and rot clogged my nose. For a split second I thought that a child was crying in the distance but it was the awful whining of rusty door hinges...
The blow torch of sunlight has peeled back the once vibrant shade of yellow on the old shutters.