abandoned swing - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The swing had a seat that reminded me of the beach, of the wood that had become so beautiful for its time at sea, travelling with only the sun for company. I could see the grains that swirled in the way salt water does, and under the palm it was soft and smooth. I wondered for how long it had been alone in the wind, waiting, always waiting for the return of laughter and play, for the hostages of the tiny screens to be freed.
Chilled gales caused the old swing to sway unsteadily. Rusted chains screamed for release. Rain pattered the tarnished rubber seat, slicking it with moisture. What little light shafted through the charcoal ether secured a home there.
In the storms I imagine a ghostly passenger ebbing back and forth on that old swing, forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards - one abandoned by matter, one forgotten in time. Yet in my daydreams I varnish that old seat and make it the smallest of benches in my flower garden, chains removed for good.
She took ahold of the tired swing's lone rope, twisting it round and round til the poor weathered tether was taut with tension, the binds creaking with pleas for relief. Not until she sat on the dried out, grey seat, the wood complaining rather noisily under her weight, and had the frayed cord securely between her legs, did she finally release all the strain she had caused the worn, but deeply loved elder swing. The girl closed her eyes, enjoying the almost floating sensation as the world blended together and spun round faster and faster. "I will miss you," she breathed tenderly, holding the coarse rope close to her forehead, the frayed, severed threads playfully tickling her nose. "I will remember you when all else has failed."
Like a jellyfish on the seashore, the weathered wood hung motionless from fraying threads. It had been a seat of kings and queens, once, but was now simply another ornament gathering dust in the deserted yard.
The long rusted chains hung motionless and silent, yet still took central place within the tubular, ivy entwined framework. The smooth wooden seat which I remembered from my youth, was now rough, split and warped, and lay submerged in a bed of tall Scotch thistles.
He glanced at the old, worn swing. Years ago, he had swung there, alone. None of the other children had liked it- it had been old even then. But then, no one had liked him either. He had been a strange child, quiet, intense, with a gaze that seemed to pierce through people. Until he entered the Academy, that swing had been his only friend. Throwing excuses to his fellow newly graduated classmates, he made his way over to the abandoned swing, eyes taking in the peeled white coat and rough wooden seat. The ropes were tattered and harsh as he took a tentative seat, wrapping his callused hands around them. Suddenly, he felt overwhelmed with emotion and tears prickled at his eyes. Alarmed, he wiped at them, but the feeling remained. Softly, he said one little word and left.
It was an ancient swing with a splintered wooden seat, faded red paint peeling off in curls. It hung heavily from the sagging wooden frame, orange spots of rusts peppering the chains. It swung gently in the breeze, creaking, as if remembering a moment long ago, a child now grown up. Grass grew unchecked beneath it, waiting to catch a child who had flung himself from the swing at the apex of its arc.
It waited patiently, unassuming, quiet, but the child never came.
The swing that had brought Lisa joy as a child was lonesome on the hill. Its only movement now came in the windswept gales that beat the land down. Its once gay red paint was blistered right through with rust. The seat was a ghostly form of its previous self, the wood grain now ridged from the soaking in of the icy droplets; the relentless freeze-thaw taking its toll. On days when her chores were done before bedtime she would take the dog and walk to it. With an ungloved hand she would touch its rough surfaces as if it could take her back to the happy days of her youth, when her mother was still alive and the town had prospered. She yearned for the days when folks had the time to take their young ones to the swing and when taxes stretched far enough to pay for such things.
The chains made a quiet squeaking sound as they swung back and forth, managing to sound deafening in the eerie night. The wooden plank that once acted as a seat now hung from one side and the rusted chains looked like they could barely support the chunk of rotten wood.
Everything ends. So it was with the playground in the middle of the city. It was not unlike the surroundings. Buildings were growing old and tired, and no-one cared any more. The city council ignored it. The parents feared the children would be hurt. The children still loved the park. but had orders not to go there. Some rough gangs met there after dark, so each morning, more trash collected. Sally, now 8 years old, lived in an apartment building nearby. Across the street, she remembered last year. Last year, some of the parents were still going there. Last year, she played with others her own age. She relived the laughter of many afternoons until one day, one lonely day, before her mother arrived home, she ventured out. She crossed the street, and entered into the land of laughter. She sat on her favorite swing, and embraced the childhood which ended last year.
One day the aging wooden seat will submit to the downward pressure of my weight. No longer am I a forty pound girl but a young woman of three times that. My hands stretch up the ropes that bind it to the bough above, feeling the frayed fibres poking outward into the watery early light. These legs that used to dangle now push against the dirt, worn into a muddy hollow by years of use back in the days when Mama called from the front yard to come for egg on toast. There is a creak from above, a cascade of small leaves and the swing moves backward, feet lift upward - a suspended moment of childhood.
It sat there, it did. With its long, creaky, rusted poles and set a memory in motion. This was Julie's favorite place in the world. She was the only one... the only one I knew who could bring such light to a grey painted place. Now as the wind tussles with the chains of the only remaining swing, I start to think maybe her spirit still lingers here, maybe in the afterlife, she still loves to swing.