Fireplace - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The fireplace is our tiny sun for the evening, casting long shadows over the rug. The flames curl and sway, flicking this way and that, crackling as they burn the dry wood. It's so good to feel their warmth at last, even if is from only one direction. We watch in hypnotized joy, holding our hands out to get just a little more of the gentle heat.
The fireplace mimics the warmth of the day. We sit cozy by the flame, our features illuminated by the flickering light, the only one in the room. Though the air isn't smokey we can smell the pine as it burns, just a faint fragrance to reassure our senses that there will be comfort in the long bitter winter.
Dalgliesh had moved over to the fireplace, a plain wooden overman tel with an iron surround patterned with grapes and convolvulus set in the middle of the right-hand wall. It must, he thought, have been decades since a fire was lit in it for warmth. In front of the grate was a tall electric fire with artificial coals, a high curved back and a triple set of burners.
Pant sat in a kitchen so broad and long that it reminded him of a picture
he had seen in an illustrated copy of Ivanhoe. The table, on which rested
his steaming cup of home grown, home roasted coffee, was a massive
hand-hewn affair. On the top, a single slab of mahogany six feet wide and
four inches thick, axe marks were yet to be seen.
As his glance took in the room his heart swelled with admiration. There
was no stove. A great fireplace was there in its stead. Pots and pans of
iron, and of copper and black tin, hung from the rafters.
The wood-fire, blazing cheerily in the ample fireplace, sent its warmth and light far out into the room, flashing red reflections in the curiously twisted bars of the brass bedstead.
Found in A Daughter of the Rich, authored by .
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They stood about the fireplace, their conspiratorial whispers barely audible over the crackle of lively flames. One by one the documents used to draft the new treaty were fed into the hungry fire until all that was left of them was some ash and an imperceptible darkening of the sandy brick work. Then they drank single malt whiskey stolen from a shipment bound for the Marquis himself and made a toast to his downfall, before throwing their glasses into the twisted iron grate. In the morning it was innocuous again, some scorched brickwork with a fancy border of iron carved to look like bunches of grapes a cedar mantle, some ash that needed sweeping. Hardly a place for sedition, just somewhere to be warm on a wintry night.