bedroom - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The room contained a small bed, neatly made, two straight-backed chairs,
a washstand, a bureau--without any mirror--and a small table. There were
no drapery curtains at the dormer windows, no pictures on the wall. All
day the sun had been pouring down upon the roof, and the little room
was like an oven for heat. As there were no screens, the windows had not
been raised. A big fly was buzzing angrily at one of them now, up and
down, up and down, trying to get out.
The buyers paused to look in what they thought must be a cupboard, but instead on the other side was a bedroom. It had clearly belonged to a child, and a loved one at that. There were so many posters of Liverpool Football Club on the walls that they really weren't to sure of the paint colour behind them. The bed was not pushed up against a wall but more central with an elaborate mahogany headboard. On the night stand was The Prisoner of Azkaban, and on newspaper was a pair of cleated boots still with residues of mud on the sides. Yet the bed itself had no covers and over it all lay a thick layer of pristine dust. Not a footfall had disturbed this room in some time. They looked to one another, their previously cheerful faces wiped of all emotion and without a word closed the door.
The bedroom was furnished on a meagre budget but if was full of more warmth than Clara had seen in many years. On the back wall was a mural, a tree with every colour of fall leaf imaginable and a few more besides. On the crude pine bed was a hand embroidered orange cover. From every wall smiled black and white photographs of herself as a child with her mother, her father and her sister, Eliza. She had spent so much time living away, in barracks, in field tents, on foreign bases, that she had become unaccustomed to these little touches. Then Eliza bustled in with a tray of sandwiches and cake, her face so tired but wearing the same smile she always reserved for her twin. It was going to be strange to be here again, but wonderful. A place to recover, to find her feet again and this was just the bedroom for it.
Hazel looked about her in amazement. This was her little room! A small single bed, looking like a snow drift, so white and feathery and high was it; one window curtained with a square of starched white cotton cloth that drew over the panes by means of a white cord on which it was run at the top; a tiny wash-stand with an old-fashioned bowl and pitcher of green and white stone-ware, and over it an old-fashioned gilt mirror; a small splint-bottomed chair and large braided rug of red woollen rags. That was all, except in one corner, where some cleats had been nailed to the ceiling and a clothes-press made by hanging from them full curtains of white cloth.
The room is blue with beautiful murals on the wall, hand painted by someone who knew what they were doing. The scene is of the stilt walkers that cruise down the Vancouver streets in the winter festival. The colours are like nothing else, vibrant, strong. No washed out blues and insipid baby colours for this poor kid, whoever he was. And it was a he, all the clothing is for a boy Darwin's age. All new looking and expensive. Beautiful cords and close-knit sweaters. I'll take anything that isn't red. A quick look in the closet gets me a rucksack, no good for anything but emergencies; it's every bit as bright as everything else in here.
It was a room with a bed, nothing more. The place had been built for new aspiring home owners before the downturn and none came. Everyone moved toward the city centre for food and work, leaving the 'burbs to become a modern ghost town. The bed was no doubt dragged in by someone intending to claim the place before discovering the "pioneer" lifestyle that went with these out of the way abandoned palaces.
Patricia followed her aunt, not knowing quite what to expect. Maybe her cousin had imposed some personality on the bedroom before she went to college. Stepping across the threshold she felt the walls close in on her. It was a chintz nightmare of frills and flowers - pink and orange everywhere. On the beside table sat a doily and a lamp that could have just leapt out of the nineteen forties. The air still carried the scent of glue from new carpet and wallpaper. There wasn't a trace of Coco left, the door must have barely swung shut behind her before her mother had erased her.
My bedroom was small and cluttered, tucked away towards the back of the house. It used to be a bathroom, before they had renovated, replacing the tiles with dark blue carpet and floral wallpaper. I hated flowers, but appreciated my own space.
Cramped, dim and cave-like, a cheap spindly pine framed bed was cut shorter to fit into the room with a narrow strip of carpet graying with decades of filth placed to its left.To the right of the bed was a meanly proportioned window layered in aging mould and dust, covered by twenty-something year old net curtains swaying mysteriously in the shadows. Draws were overflowing with moth-eaten clothes and bedding thriving with maggots and grime. Dirt encrusted beige wallpaper was peeling off the wall near the dented floorboards.