asphalt - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The asphalt made such a smooth black river, the sort wheels float so effortlessly along. And so as our car made its steady way along, the scenery took on an almost meditative quality, the light igniting the hues of each tree and home.
The asphalt was a glossy black, like a wet photograph. In that moment Lila imagined the street in a nostalgic monochrome, keeping safe that moment she and Josh made their way home in the light wintry rain, smiling so brightly that the cold didn't matter.
The asphalt was black under the dark cloud, only the white lines gleamed under the headlamps. The wind was biting at the trees, howling wolf-like about the old jeep. Larissa turned up the radio, as if the music could beat back the night, letting the tyres eat up the distance between herself and home.
Reiner was so used to the city that the snake of asphalt looked natural to his eyes, yet the swathe of dirty green scrub either side was quite foreign. The road begged an onward journey toward something he would understand - the hills promised only wetness and a kind of isolation that frightened him. And so he drove on, wheels hissing in the recent rain.
The asphalt that had been so black when the houses were built now lay like a great lazy grey snake up the hill. Here and there were dark patches where the potholes had been filled. Cracks spread over it's surface like the lines in a old man's face. It looked as though it had been beaten into submission by decades of car tires and now it was finally ready to concede; ready to be torn up and replaced entirely.
The asphalt was hot enough to burn a bare foot. I carried all the beach gear while Ted and Ravi laid out towels over the black car park. We only had three towels and we couldn't leave any behind so it was a crazy progression to my old red sedan. Ted laying out the new towel and Ravi pulling up the one behind and passing it forwards. We must have looked really stupid. Everyone else was just strolling by in flip-flops.
Amber recalled the day the road had been made. The new asphalt had fallen to the road like syrup covered oats, lumps so eager to stick together, but black as tar. Only after it had been rolled was it a smooth black ribbon, flat as icing yet bitter to the eyes and mouth. After so many seasons the black had become grey, aging just like her.
Tim picked the asphalt off the hill in his minds-eye and laid down some pines. He liked that, to see the natural world as intended instead of through the warped telescope of the twenty-first century.
The asphalt road had been laid in the days of mass travel, when no-one was satisfied with where they were. Those were the times when most folks worked outside the home, adding digits that never existed. Wherever a person was was boring by definition and other places were exotic, exciting. Instead of knowing their own hills they knew beaches hundreds of miles away. These days we still travel of course, we still visit those far away places, just no so often - instead preferring to appreciate where we are and the people we are lucky enough to love.