driftwood - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The driftwood had ridges and grooves that swirled and curved with the shape of the piece. The wood itself seemed to flow like so much water in my hand. There were holes where I can only presume the knots of the wood once were. It was a subdued brown, as if years adrift in the salty brine had washed the very colour from it, like a well loved t-shirt that had been in the machine a few times too often. I longed for it to tell me tales of storms and giant waves. I clutched it close to my ear like a conch, but it made not a sound. It belonged on the mantle with my collection of shells, beneath the watercolour of a beached fishing boat. Together my collection would remind me of the sea, remind me of the childhood I left behind for this landlocked province.
The driftwood ridges eddy and swirl like the cream in my morning coffee. It is a sculpture carved by the ocean and deposited on the sand. Back in my metropolis apartment it will be assumed to be an expensive trinket from an upmarket store, especially when surrounded by white seashells. But every time it catches my eye I will hear the sea and feel the sand that is coating my toes; and for that moment I will here again, home.
The driftwood is soft in my hands and bleached by the salt and sun. It's surface swirls like the eddies of the river that kisses the ocean not far away. I run my fingertips over the ridges and already my mind has turned to a use for this piece. A simple plank for candles perhaps. It has already been made beautiful by the briny currents, all I need to do is add the finishing touches.
In the ocean the wood has traded its once lustrous beauty for a dishevelled and subdued charm. The softest parts have washed away into the salty waters leaving only the toughest cells behind, pronounced in their contours. To me though it isn't even wood, it's the waves I see, flowing in their organic curls. i can smell the sea imbibed within it, there is sand within the pits that used to be knots. I turn it over and over in my hands and I can already see it on my mantle, a souvenir of my time by the sea. A reminder of these precious days away from the grind of the office.
What was once one of the fishing fleet was now driftwood, and though we had long mourned those brave fishermen, to see even a fragment was enough to bring tears.
On the pebbles was driftwood, wet like the stones. Inga held it in her hands, poking a finger though where an eye had been, and the holding it up to the light shine through. She squinted and smiled before turning like a shot-putter to hurl it back into the briny waves.
After so much bleaching the driftwood was almost as pale as the sand. The ocean had taken care of the softest wood, gently carving it as only water can do. The eyes that had once sat in the wood were raised arching curves that reflected the swirling of the water so close by.
Fran picked up the driftwood, turning it over and over in her hands, surprised by how light it was. The August sun had baked it to such a pale hue, the only darker parts being the grooves that ran like swirls of shade. She ran her fingers over it, tracing the texture, making a memory for her “mental scrapbook.”