The edges of the broken glass were as the coastline of a small country, perhaps one long ago under the night sky, before the time of neon lights. The glass itself was a grey-brown, inviting the mind to see the settled dust even at a distance. Around it was the brickwork, perfect beneath the dirt of years and rising upward to the sky and cloud. It must have been abandoned for some time, a building waiting for a reason to remain standing.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, February 11, 2019.

Stepping into the old factory building was like stepping into a whole other world. It was like venturing onto a set of old train tracks and following them as far as they'd take you, ignoring the grass peeking up between the slats and the bits where the metal was rusted and broken. The building seemed to shudder in the wind and sway as the rain attacked it.

He pulled down his hood. The building was empty, but for a few obsolete pieces of rusted factory equipment, pieces that seemed perfectly at home within the building's vine-covered walls. Just as it had been outside, the inside looked like something out of a dystopian movie, the corrugated walls as rusted and useless as the equipment they housed. Beams stretched high overhead, and rain dripped down through cracks in the ceiling.

He stepped further into the building, looking around as he left wet footprints on the floor in his wake. His hands trailed along the old beams, "Are you sure?" he asked, turning back to the figure standing in the doorway. The abandoned factory seemed like an odd place to do much of anything, let alone a suitable place to test bombs.

"Nobody hears much of anything out here," she said, smirking as she walked in. There was a certain overly-proud lilt to her steps, the bag slung over her shoulder filled with half the stuff they'd need—most of it was simple kitchen supplies or stuff you could get at Home Depot.

"Doesn't mean they never will."

"But the odds are in our favour," she said, "And I intend to make the most of them."

Her breath seemed to still in the cold air, leaving a gap of soundless space as they stood there, metres apart. The quiet was an unspoken dare, telling him there was no point in trying to cross her, that it was pointless. A gap of nothing but a challenge. Only the rain dared to interrupt, pounding hard against the walls of the building like it didn't care about their stupid conversation. And it didn't.

"Fine," he said, caving. "Let's get started, shall we?"

By Allison, June 3, 2018.

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 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 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.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, December 20, 2014*.

Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by daisy.


My footsteps echoed on the wooden floor, which was once aesthetically pleasing. The stillness of the villa sent shivers down my spine. The mirthful garden, where once young children played joyously, where the flowers bloomed under the sun rays, is now just a snow covered solitary path. There is water dripping from the roof, rhythmically, generating a melancholic melody. The door hinges are all rusted and the glass windows are all shattered, shattered like my dreams after the abandonment of this villa.

By Khushboo Sharma, July 12, 2017.

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.

By Alexandra Henderson, May 31, 2015.

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.

By lulu, September 4, 2016.

There stood a lone structure, reaching the 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

By Iman Malik, June 25, 2015.

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.

By nerdyk3, July 1, 2015.

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...

By botond, August 2, 2015.

The blow torch of sunlight has peeled back the once vibrant shade of yellow on the old shutters.

By Grace Galton, August 4, 2015.

I was prepared... backpack, flashlight, extra batteries, camera, phone, and a knife. The building looked ancient and rusty, fit to fall apart with a single touch. One deep breath in and I slowly put my foot on the step. It creaked; I froze. The crickets had been barely audible, now they almost deafened. The paint peeled like parched soil, breaking the graffiti around the broken windows. I reached for the doorknob. Yet there were letters formed in violent strokes... 'DO NOT...' As the door swung wide a stench flooded out, the smell of something, or someone... rotting.

By EllaTheVamp, August 3, 2017*.

Facades are an impressive thing, the seemingly charming house on the hill, which if not for the slightly cracked, dust coated windows and the slightly rotten wood or the keep out sign appears to be perfectly normal. However, the inside is far direr. The rooms which were once filled with the echoes of laughter now echoed nothing but silence. The entrance which was once something to be marveled at now a sorry sight of collapsed splintered beams, pale paint chips and thick layers of suffocating dust. Rats have long been driven away by the lonely and hopelessness which has engulfed the building.

By Lol Rae, September 10, 2017.

I was on my usual morning walk on my way to the coffee shop when I stopped in front of the abandoned house. I didn't truly acknowledge it until now, with the paint fading and chipping off, revealing the wooden boards underneath. The rose bushes were growing out of control and seemed to take over the property. The cobwebs hung loose in the doorframe. The windows were cracked, some shattered, glass sparkling in the light on the ground. It was the only house on the block that had this eerie and sinister feeling to it. The grass in the front yard was dead and dry. Mist hung over the house like a rain cloud getting ready to unleash a torrent. Looking down at the wooden gate almost hanging off the hinges, I pushed it open slightly with my index finger, cringing at the high pitched creaking sound it made. I wondered who had lived there before, what they were like, if this house was ever in a decent, livable condition. Surging forward, leaves crunched under my boot. I found myself drawn to such a mysterious building. Maybe it was my human nature taking over, the necessity to satisfy one's curiosity by heading towards the danger. It was incredibly bone-chilling, but at the same time it was mysterious, and the mystery and history of this house called to me like a siren.

By Joscelyn Averette, May 31, 2018.