Candle - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The candle had rested upon the wooden mantle for many years, unburnt. It was pretty, the colour of sea-waves in storybooks, conjuring sea-dragons in pastel shades to Elise's imagination. She noticed their tops, pale after so many warm summer suns, the whiteness of that natural wax making an imperfect halo. She let her finger run from the edge to the wick, still as perfectly smooth as the day it was made, ready to fulfil its purpose. Martina struck the match and she stood back just a little, watching the new flame flicker its golden hue into the early morning. This was right, as it should be, no more waiting, no more unsung songs or candles collecting dust. Life is for living.
The flame burnt neatly amid the dusty wax, the tasteful coffee hues dull beneath the layers of years. At first it smelt odd, as if the fire were digesting the dirt, then it was just the same as any other candle - orange flame, blackening wick and pooling wax.
The candle was small in her hand, like a golf ball only squashed into an ellipse. It was pale green, bright though, like the new spring growth. Leon watched the flame moving softly, sheltered by her cupped fingers.
They had been without light for so long that the single lit candle was almost too bright to look at. The flame flickered in that vulnerable way fire does, the nascent flame being pushed by a breeze from the newly opened door.
The candle's wick, once whiter than the snow outside is now charred, black. It curls to one side amid the pool of drying wax, sitting in the newly made crater that is the top. My eyes run over the drips, the colours of the layers, blues and greens. Before it was perfect in a "machine way," now it is perfectly artistic, unique. When the wax cools further I will trace the runs with my finger to feel the paths it ran, not quite chaotic but free. Tomorrow the new drips will lay over them and so it goes on, over and over, marking the days until the candle is too short to be burnt anymore.
Tiffany had been told not to remove the candle from the table. It was pure beeswax and expertly carved, it must have cost her mother a fortune. With a wry grin she struck a match. Then savouring the moment she lowered her hand with a grace bestowed upon her by thousands of dollars worth of ballet lessons. When the wick was alight she sat on a chair, resting her head in her hands and settled in to watch it burn. At first there was only a little pool of molten wax in the middle and it wouldn't have been terribly damaged if she had blown it out then. She stayed at her perch until the first dribble cascaded over the edge and down onto the dining table. Then she withdrew her limbs from their rested pose and headed up the stairs to bed. It would be morning when her mother got home from night shift, then she'd find her precious candle on her precious table, exactly where she left it.
When the time came for old king to pass through the town, his way was lit with thousands of delicate flames, each no bigger than a drop of honey. These candles were a precious commodity to the citizens yet they twinkled in the dusk, out numbering the stars. Unlike those constellations above they did not remain still, each was held aloft and swayed so that it became a sea of light, together and separate and the same time. Behind the old man rode his son, who would return alone at dawn to claim the crown that had been left with the chancellor. How were they to know that upon the surrounding hills lay an encampment of their enemy, who welcomed the twinkling yellow even more than the man they honoured? The seat of power was unguarded and the first rays of the new day were hours away.
The blackness of the night swallowed everything save a yellow flicker a way off down the track. As it became nearer, bobbing up and down unevenly, a white stick emerged beneath it. It was a candle, the same as the ones in the church, but Edna doubted that this was a man of God coming her way in the dead of night and took cover in the ditch. "He may be carrying a flame to light his path," she thought "but I am not so foolish." There wasn't a chance in hell he'd seen her yet, all she had to do was sit tight and wait for him to pass. As she stared at him that vulnerable flame ebbed and flared in warm summer air, stubbornly refusing to be extinguished. It illuminated the craggy and unkempt features of it's bearer, a stranger. This town was too small not to know every man and his seventh cousin twice removed and she had never clapped eyes on him before.
The birthday candle seemed reluctant to catch fire as if it had stage-fright, eventually the wick stopped spluttering and burnt with a steady yellow flame. Once it was blown out the wispy plumes of silver smoke lazily waltzed their way upwards and dissipated into the room.