abandoned mine - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The tunnels were as the arteries of the earth, blackened by the abuse of years. They went on and on into the black without and end in sight or possibility of sunlight, tracks to nowhere that lead only to the cold. I reached out my hand to the walls that blinkered, that told me of no other option but walk. Then I took a step backwards, and another, and another, until I felt the golden rays warm my hair.
In the old abandoned mine there is nothing but an echo and stagnation. There is no light, no movement of air, no warmth. Cleo holds out her hand like a child foolishly expecting affection. She jumps, not expecting her nails to scrape the walls, her claustrophobia folding in her like the lid of a box.
With the flashlight beam on the old tracks they walk down into the mine that hasn't had the echo of footsteps within it for centuries. There is a mustiness, a sudden damp coldness and the natural light is all choked up behind them like ale behind a cork.
In the mine the blackness is a friend, taking away the stimulation of the world. There are no colours to inspire memories of yesteryear, not the feeling of rain or the hope of a spring morning. Perhaps that is why I come here, just like a child hiding under the blankets. I am buried and the world carries on regardless.
The ancient strip-mine had long been abandoned, and now, many of the craters left behind by the giant mining machines, were converted into biospheres, artificial ecological systems enclosed within enormous glass domes. Over the course of time, some would have cities erected within them, whilst others were designed to contain artificial oceans.
In the world yet to come, the Satellite with its now reflective surface, would be known as the Moon.
Old walls are usually covered in moss and ivy around here, but not in the old abandoned mine. No light means no plants. Instead the old brick is just damp and crumbly. I never used to dare go in there, but when I figured out that no-one else did either, it became a place to hide. Once you got over the echoing of your own footsteps and the tonnes of soil pressing down above you it was OK really. I brought three flashlights in my backpack, spare batteries, a winter thickness sleeping bag, my pod, food and a writing pad. Whatever the temperature outside it was cool down there, whatever the weather outside it was damp down there, it was a world unto itself.
From the trampled greenery around the entrance to the old mine I can surmise that they came this way. If Gord has any sense they didn't go in, but when was the last time he willingly backed away from something he thought was a "great adventure," especially if there was danger? In that suspended moment that is both instant and eternal I can see him several years ago on the roof of the house with a duvet cover parachute. He went in, of course he did.
I take out the flashlight and shine it in. The mouth feels like a total void for without my artificial beam there is not only no light but no sound or warmth. Save for the feel of rough rock under my boots it is total sensory deprivation. In seconds every muscle in my body is tense fit to spasm and on impulse I call out. "Gord! Gordon! Are you in here?" The only rewards for this effort are the empty echo and the "joy" of hearing my own voice sounding like the opener to a low budget horror movie.
I reach out to touch the wall - rough and colder than the air which only after a few steps is already bereft of the sweet scent of the grass that blows outside. This staleness grows with my distance from the sunshine, exaggerating my claustrophobia that is screaming for me to turn around. That's when something white glints in the flashlight - it's paper. Unfolding carefully I direct the beam right at it and feel my heart sink through my shoes. Scrawled there in blue biro is the shopping list I made last Tuesday...
From the ground loomed a doorway, an entrance with nothing to enter. What was there but a dusty hill? Henry ran his hands over the decaying wood, it had all the softness of driftwood with none of the charm. Two things crossed his mind, firstly that at almost high-noon a place out of the sun was the best he could have hoped for and secondly that there may be treasure within. The door moved with some reluctance, not heavy, just grinding along the dirt at the base. With it finally open it was as cool as standing in front of a refrigerator back home, just without any friendly light or cool beer. Stepping inside he couldn't help but inhale air that hadn't moved for some years, sufficiently stale to knock him back pace back into the kind of heat that forces one to cover up instead of dress down. It was some kind of mine, doubtless miles deep; stepping in once more a mostly submerged metal rail was discernible through the sole of his boot.
In the old abandoned mine I feel like I am walking in the hollow bones of mother earth. I feel like I cam returning to her core, rejoining with the soil my birth parted me from. I know that in a few short hours I will turn around and return to the life above the worms and the beetles, but not yet, not yet. Above is rock, as is below, and for now I like it that way.