armchair - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Even the armchair made a statement of authority, ostentatious in its detailing. The gold was brilliant and the reds as deep as any poppy. The wood had been polished to a high shine and the floor beneath lacked the usual thin layer of dust these large homes often had.
The armchair was as upright as a sargent major. The back was at ninety degrees to the firm seat and the arms were like the tail flukes of an airplane, stiff and rectangular. It was a pleasing bottle green with dark wood trim and just the thing you'd expect to see in a house of this age. It was almost camouflaged against the green and brown patterned wallpaper. There were no signs of wear on the seat, it must have sat here in the lobby for the best part of half a century as a decoration. Perhaps it was occasionally perched in by a visitor waiting to be seen by the master, keeping them not quite in comfort and not quite relaxed - doing it's job perfectly.
The armchair was something like a creamy leather marshmallow. It was the kind of chair that molded around you and hugged you as much as supported you. It was the kind of chair that children love and older people see as a back ache waiting to happen.
One glance around the sitting room was enough to confirm that the only clean place to sit was the suede armchair, modern, simple and the colour of Oyster mushrooms. As per my usual routine I smiled pleasantly at the homeowner once settled only to register a look of poorly concealed horror on her face. Perhaps it was the only pristine thing in the room for a reason. Her eyes flicked nervously to the door as the nails of her right hand dug into her left...
The armchair was the most unloved thing in the room, dejected and sagging under its own weight. For most of the year it wasn't sat in but piled high with garbage and cast off clothing, obscured from the light that fought past the blinds. It wasn't until Edward found it and took it out onto the decking, turning it around and wiping with a damp white cloth that it was ever appreciated. The leather was strong, the wood untarnished and after so many years of disuse it was without the ingrained dirt of the other chairs.
Laney sank into the armchair, relieved to feel soft fabric and no more weight on her feet. She let her head loll back and eyes pull to a close. In only minutes the fabric was warm, homely. With black clothes on charcoal fabric Hannah didn't notice her when she came in with no good intentions...
The armchair was a statement against gravity, more upright than the walls of the house. The curl of the wood was carved to demand attention and the fabric was bold for the unguarded eye. Lila ran her hands along the sides as if appreciating it, when all the while her mind worked on the problem at hand.
In the corner was an armchair fit for the dump, the seat ripped, dull grey coils poking up into the dust laden air. It was once a soft dove grey, yet now it was more reminiscent of cigarette smoke and smears of engine oil.