attic - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The attic is clear and clean, light cascades in from a vaulted ceiling, the beams meeting in a series of arches. All that is there is Malcolm's old writer's chair and the table that was painted so many times it became a rainbow of sorts, chaotic perhaps, but that was so him. I think he needed this sort of space to be creative in, a blank page for the eyes and ears, so that what came to him was purely his creations, stories eager to be told.
The attic with its low beams was made all the smaller by the heaps of dusty "gems." Every one of them had been stored in battered boxes and garbage sacks for later use or enjoyment. In truth it was a graveyard for these treasures, a place for them to quietly die amongst the cobwebs until their sentimental value had waned. Out of sight was out of mind and the pain of parting with the item postponed. Were they ever to be retrieved the mildew and the dankness would have ruined cloth and electronics alike. Nancy was aware of all of this, yet she still pulled on the rope to call the ladder down and scaled it with her son's kindergarten books in another black sac. At the top she placed it on the last patch of bare floor and retreated to the warmth of the house.
The attic was like those in many dwellings in the neighbourhood in that it was tall and fully boarded. Sure it was difficult to stand right at the edges where the roof sloped down, but there was plenty of room even for the tallest of adults. But unlike the others rather than being full of junk it had been slept in every night for the winter months. The reverend had started with just one homeless parishioner, but word of shelter and a warm bed had spread and now they filtered in at dinner time and left after breakfast. His neighbours had taken it in good humour at first, but now that talk was of down-and-outs mingling with the children and drug-abusers wandering the street from breakfast until dinner. It wasn't long before a delegation arrived at this door demanding a "stop to all this nonsense."
Sitting among the bare beams with his Tolkien book balanced on his drawn up knees, Ravi thought about whether it was right or wrong to play hooky in the attic. He knew Mom would want him in class, but the thought of the other kids eating lunch in front of him when there was no food for him to take was just overwhelming. Here at least he could be hungry in peace. He stood up and wiped the grime from the small circular window and then repositioned himself where the light streamed in. It smelt of staleness and dust but that window was fixed, no chance of freshening things up. Sometimes he thought her heard a rat scuttle or a bird on the roof, but then he reabsorbed himself in Frodo's adventure and everything else melted away.
I walked into my closet to get my clothes. I looked up at the attic hatch -I loved to dream of what was inside. There could be gold, diamonds, futuristic technology and more. But my mum wouldn't let me go up. I thought for a second "Would my mum notice if I just took a small peek?" So I pulled it down and climbed up the ladder. It was dusty and boring. I walked over to a cardboard box and looked inside. There were pictures of strangers who I suppose forgot about them when they moved out. They were black and white, but browned with age. The people in them were as old as most grandparents. Then I moved to the next boxes finding a few old coins in a small purse from the nineteen thirties. Then I heard my mum saying "Honey, where are you?"
In the Handel home there was a big roomy attic; the ceiling was low, and the windows had thick panes; the walls and floors were built of heavy timber, and silence reigned there.
The old painting leans against the wall, dusty and unloved. Petra runs a finger along the gold framing, her pink nail polish almost purple in the half-light, and it comes away dirty. In the grime that must have taken years to form there is now a streak of gold. She holds it up. With the light that struggles to make it through the grime on the window the colours are subdued, but she can already tell it's a country scene. The hills roll green, interwoven with the golds of autumn. How it could have lain here in the dark for so long without her knowing? She moves slowly down the attic stairs, one hand on the rungs, one on the painting. It's time for it to have pride of place...
The attic is like a cathedral thrown on top of a bunker. It's so weird. The bottom so basic, as stylish as a shoebox. Yet up here it invites one to fly to the rafters. The roof has a gothic twirl and in it are cut six round small windows, shafts of light coming through just the same as the brilliant beams in a forest. On closer inspection the floor is quite worn under the dust layer, more so than the house below. There are square indentations from chair legs and larger ones more fitting for tables and a bed. It's like the house was built upside down, but it works so well. I want to live here already, keep the storage in the first floor and spend my time here with room to fly.
I've seen attics so beautiful it was a shame the beams were hidden away by the roof, symmetry taking the eye right up to the peak in the centre. This one sits low and sunken like it was never intended to stretch for the sky. Even under the steady beam of my flashlight the beams are dark, more from moisture than wood type. Even in the centre there's barely five feet of clearance. Every breath feels like sucking in the air of my own tomb. Sixty years ago this place must have smelled of fresh pine, sunshine flooding in before this tired old roof of shale was added on top. We have no choice but to use it. We need every space possible for the underground railway and in some ways these unlikely spaces are the best. The musky smells can mask the new inhabitants until they can be moved on to the next leg of their journey.
My curiosity got the better of me. I slowly climbed the wooden ladder and glanced into the dark gloomy attic, letting my eyes adjust. The wind screeched through a tight gap in the old window, the room was as cold as ice. As I stepped inside the floorboards creaked, something smashed to the ground; it must have been an object falling off one of the many packed up boxes. I felt uneasy as I went further in, as if the room expanded as I continued. I bumped into something, it must have been another box. Something moved quickly across the room, early I might have thought it was a mouse, but with all the unknown noises I had been hearing, I got the feeling that I wasn't alone.
As I crossed into the attic, darkness engulfed even my silhouette. The dollar store flashlight illuminated the messy room: books scattered, antique furniture inches deep in dust, old paintings, cobweb covered walls. Claustrophobia washed over me from head to toe. The beams above were creaking as the storm winds howled - old, and wet from the frequent rainfall. Every moment I spent in the room seemed to be a temptation for the beams to collapse.