dark park - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
As the light fades to black, the colours of the grass and leaves remain in my mind almost like a fragrance. The park becomes ever more silvery between the the shadows that stretch out as if yawning. Already the warmth of the autumn day is quite gone, only ever present in the sunshine, and the first bite of winter pales my skin.
The park grows ever more dark. Soon the shadows of the trees will blend into the blackness and their silhouettes against the sky will grow less pronounced. As the view disappears the sounds emerge as if the volume is being steadily turned upward. The breaking of a simple leaves or twigs becomes the focus of Macca's attention. He detects the loam fragrance in the autumnal breeze and glances upward to catch a glimpse of the moon before a dark cloud erases its precious silver rays.
The laughter of the children in the park as died along with the light of the day. In darkness the black grass is left to recover from the happy frenetic footfalls, soccer balls and picnics. The trees sway, at first visible against a pale grey sky, then hidden by blackest night. Leaves scurry along the path and the breeze becomes more keen, raising goosebumps on Ivy's arm.
In the darkness of the park I could be beautiful. Among trees that could pass for elaborate halloween silhouettes I could be someone graceful. As my worn ballet shoes tread the rain washed path, soaking in the cold water, I move my limbs as if I were on a stage. My movements are lost under the black sky, the only tell-tale sign of my oddness the quiet scuffles of my feet. All too soon the yellow lamp-light of the street illuminates my true form and instead I revert to the shuffle that befits one of my stature and physical appearance.
I walk through the park, a black and white picture of what it is in the daylight. I almost feel like a movie star in the days of old, walking this path through the short-cut grass. In the daylight I savour the bright colours, yet at nightfall I drink in the serenity of monochrome. Other than the steady sound of my footfalls, there is nothing but wide open space and nature either going to sleep or waking up.
There was no-one in the park but an old gent who appeared to be reading a newspaper. Amy paused at the gate, the greenery was already charcoal and two dimensional and the grey path was melting into the night. She shivered. It sure was cold; now that jacket her mother had tried to force on her didn't seem like such a bad idea. Across the park cut ten minutes off her trip home, more if she ran. But that man, just sitting there, how does he even see the print? She resolved to walk quickly, the cheap black runners she'd bought for waitressing moved quietly over the tarmac until she stepped on a twig or dried leaf left over from fall. She didn't want to stare but her eyes repeatedly flicked to the man, so still, so decrepit. Once she was closer his attire was discernible from the darkening gloom. It was theatrical but shabby, a cloak like a magician with a flash of red silk beneath the collar. As she approached, she locked her gaze dead ahead, but once she reached his bench he was gone.
Mac's suspect had bolted from the bar the minute he drew his badge. She had fled across the road not caring for the traffic that screeched, swerved and honked around her. Her direction after that was almost impossible to tell, but he had a hunch she was hiding out in the park. She had spent her youth in the countryside, likely the trees afforded her a feeling of safety that the concrete and glass did not. He crossed at the lights and jogged softly to the iron gate. The bushes and trees were almost silhouettes, the blackest of greens. The path was the only pale thing stretching into the wooded gloom. He scanned for movement. None. Then the wind died, the leaves ceased to rustle, even the rumble of traffic was absent. In those frozen seconds he could hear the crunch of dried twigs under boot, just enough to give him the location of his quarry. It was in that moment of absolute stillness that God tipped the balance to Mac. He swung around, pistol drawn, safety off.
The dark park suits the gloom I keep inside. The sky of just an hour previously was too bright, garish around the brilliant clouds. The coldness of the bench under the moonlight feels right beneath worn denim, the remnants of a rain shower soaking in and beading the fading green paint to either side. At last the shrill cries of the daytime, the happiness present of faces, or even the ability to appear indifferent has passed.