burnt down house - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The ashes will soon be a part of new life, of the plants that recover the earth that was so burnt. The house that is gone, we recall yet let go. We lived there, loved there, as did our parents and grandparents before us. But we move on now that the flames are gone.
Looking around at the rest of the village, this must have been where the fire started. The walls had long since crumbled and in their place stood thick beams of wood, blackened and charred from where the flames had licked at them. The ruins were still smoking and he could see the faintest glow of embers as he maneuvered around the creaking threshold. Black dust hung in the air and invaded his lungs as he walked around his old house. Nothing had escaped the fire, glass littered the floor where the windows had broken and the metal base of the grand chandelier lay blackened and twisted on the ground.
The charred remains of their house stood in the pale morning light like a skeleton. It had been so alive, so vibrant. Inside had been a place of love and security, a place with memories and warmth. Now the wind whistled through and the steady rain fell right into the twisted plastic and metal that had been furniture and electronics. In those ashes lie our photographs, our art, all our personal possessions. Last night it was an inferno, black smoke billowed into the heated air, sending it's distinctive aroma over the neighborhood. Orange flames blew out the windows and sent horizontal jets of flame out ten feet or more. You could feel the radiating heat on your face from right across the street. The firefighters could only watched it burn and try the best they could to protect the houses next door, spraying foam on the sides and roof. Now our home is cold and we are bereft.
Everyone thinks the house has faded; but it hasn't. She was finally stumbling over it with me. The roof had already burnt off, or had been all destroyed by the years of rain, shine, rain, shine, I don't know. The wooden skeleton of the building had survived the fire though blackened and charred. It was like memories, but gone. Forever. No one would ever know what had happened before with this house...
Rose touched the chars of what had been her cabin, watching her brown skin become charcoal grey. The wood that had been her shelter, her comfort in every storm lay dusty at her feet. Somewhere in that mess was her life, her memories, the person she had become since the pandemic. All of River's recipes were ash, the same was true of all her books. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting to feel by touching what was left, some vibrancy of her lost home perhaps. In the end all that happened was the odour of smoke and ash filled her mouth, nostrils and lungs - as if her own grief wasn't punishment enough.
The path that lead into the woods went right past the minister's old house, the one he used to hold his Sunday afternoon teas at. Nobody knows what happened, how the fire began, but it whipped through it like an unholy temper. The old brick walls still stand, blackened around the empty openings that were doors and windows. They say with all the books the minister kept it reached the temperatures of a kiln in there, all those beautiful words being used to roast the very life out of the little house. Now the walls are cold, all life extinguished, the surrounding trees blackened on just one side.
The fire had been no accident, the entire estate knew that, but they also knew the fire department would class it as one. Not to do so meant an investigation, turning up answers the gangster politicians needed hidden. The blackened skeleton was so much more than a burnt down house. It was the final resting place of a family of five; it was the last chance to restore justice to the decaying town; it was a warning not to be noble. The house was the tombstone of every would-be-hero in the neighbourhood. The invisible message on the blackened walls was to live with the corruption or be the next burning example to beat fear back into the masses.
The houses were lined up like beauty pageant contestants, everything pretty and in order, all save the blackened skeleton that twisted into the summer sky. It stood in one third of the way up the street like a thick scar that had no intention of ever healing, the neighbouring homes baring scorch marks and signs of the vinyl siding melting. The family had made it out by the grace of God, their fire alarms having blared as the acrid smoke curled through the sleeping abode. All they had after that was the pyjamas on their backs and a prayer that the insurance company would pay up without a fight.
The house on the hill was a torch that could be seen across the waters and the smoke billowed thickly to the twilight clouds. By the dawn light it was a pool of hot ash, no more sound than a thousand year old ruin. One wall stood, black and ugly, the others were jagged and low, too stubborn to fall just yet. After the winter storms no-one doubted it would be gone entirely, the dark ash soaking in to enrich the soil below.