House - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The house was welcoming from the open door to the wide hallway. Upon the walls were the photographs of children, so obviously so loved. The floor was an old-fashioned parquet with a blend of deep homely browns and the walls were the greens of summer gardens meeting a bold white baseboard. The banister was a twirl of a branch, tamed by the carpenter's hand, it's grain flowing as water might, in waves of comforting woodland hues. Under the lamp-shine it was nature's art, something that soothed right to the soul.
This house is my home, where the laughter happens and I can rest at the end of the day. From the street it is bricks and mortar topped with tile, the same as any other. Yet if you step inside you'll feel it's so different, a place where the lungs choose to fill a little deeper and the heart beat a little steadier.
Those bricks were laid one at a time, perhaps on a fine spring day. I let my eyes wander the roughness and how each is so very straight. This house was made with love, that's for sure.
I...left to investigate their house in a low-rent neighborhood with dirt streets. One room with two windows open in the heat, burnished to silver-gray by the winds and fogs of the Minor Sea and raised on wooden posts. It smelled of fish. Their porch was a wooden box. A shed behind the house served them—and their neighbors—as privy. Inside were a fireplace, two beds shoved against opposite walls, a table, one chair, and a cupboard. There were a few baskets, one with dirty clothes, and a tin pail. I didn't see a lamp, and I didn't find candles. The only signs of food were crumbs and mouse scat. The fireplace was equipped with an iron truss, a kettle, and a pot. Under one bed, I found the leather case holding Aetref's lute. There were two, small, leather satchels, which resisted my efforts at spying, and that was the whole of their belongings and squalid life. There were no signs of female habitation or visitation.
Our house was the result of years of hard labour on the back of swarthy Bengali-speaking workers. At the height of its sumptuousness, it was the jewel of the river; the house of an important government official. Even when we lived, nearly five decades later, its pertinence and grandeur endured. But the formality of the house was both frivolous and well receded, so our childish endeavours could be fulfilled and we were free to squander away what was left our childhood on the riches of the land.
The house was long and narrow, perhaps only twelve feet wide at the front, but it stretched some thirty feet back like a giant shoe box. It was two stories high and had a one story extension at the rear for the kitchen. The wooden framed sash windows were propped open with sticks and the brick work, perhaps once a jaunty yellow, looked dirty with over a hundred years of London grime. A small rose garden had been planted in front, and although it had obviously once been carefully planned and loved, it was now riddled with weeds.
The house was indeed Elizabethan, with wooden panels along the corridors, ornate chandeliers, and oil paintings of old bearded men in tunics and ruffs. The stairs led down into a tall galleried room with a rug spread out over flagstones and a fireplace big enough to park a car in. A long polished wooden table had been set for three.
Ivy and ferns grew through the crevices of the old winding stone path, which led directly to the colossal structure. The mansion loomed proudly behind creaky iron gates, flanked by rows of skeletal trees crowned in crimson, swaying gently to the chilly autumn wind. At its threshold stood the delicate marble fountain, the soft gurgling of the clear water melodic as it resonated in the surrounding silence.
It was box-shaped with it's front door dead center, four small windows near each corner and constructed of the same red brick as The Bell. A path made out of leftover bricks made a shallow S-shape between the gate and the front door.
The Mercedes came to a roundabout with a fountain at the center, swept around it, and continued up toward a fantastic sprawling house. It was Victorian, redbrick topped with copper domes and spires that had long ago turned green. There must have been at least a hundred windows on five floors facing the drive. It was a house that just didn't know where to stop.
Set on a basement of "rusticated" stonework of various tones, it's principle story is build of tan brick banded with strips of gaily-floriated tiles, which parallel the lines of the basement. Then, based on the module of the square flower tile, there rises an intricately corbelled cornice, a series of chimney's and a cylindrical tower, all of which are harmoniously interrelated by patterns such as chevrons and prisms.
The house stood on a slight rise just on the edge of the village. It stood on its own and looked over a broad spread of West Country farmland. Not a remarkable house by any means - it was about thirty years old, squattish, squarish, made of brick, and had four windows set in the front of a size and proportion which more or less exactly failed to please.
...a house so secret that nobody has ever heard of it, let alone seen it. No postmen ever deliver mail to it's rusting letterbox, no milkmen ever brave it's crumbling doorstep and the birds know better than to fly over its chimneys. What is this place? It is the lonely home of the sisters Hiss.
It was a square grey building, with narrow windows in straight rows. There was nothing about it in the very least picturesque or attractive, for it was far too modern to at all suggest anything mediaeval or mysterious; it was just thoroughly ugly and forbidding. Yet to me it was full of fascination.
When at last Tina arrived, the grey house was a blur behind the rain-washed window of the truck. It was large, certainly, almost intimidatingly so. On climbing out it took a more detailed form, natural grey stone with all the hues mother nature can provide. The paintwork on the trim was brilliant white, flawless and the path wound to a double oak front door in loose pea shingle. The windows weren't the large ones that are so fashionable now, but more the size she used to see in old country cottages, and like them they were mullioned. But that's where all the old world charm ended, once across the threshold it was technology and modern design all the way. The floors were polished concrete and the furniture scandinavian, high end designers only. The only compromise to comfort was the sheepskin on the floor, so clean it was hard to believe anyone had ever stepped foot on it. The only mess was the wet footprints Tina had tracked in on the shoes she forgot to remove.
The Inn was a two story stone cottage. A large chimney poked out of one side of the roof and a small chimney out of the other. A creaking wooden sign advertised the Inn with a picture of a horse and fox frolicking around. The accommodations consisted of several small rooms with a tiny wooden table, wood bed frame, and woolen mattress. The main room was where food was served. Two medium windows let in natural light. They had a spacious cellar where they stored and preserved food. A small shed in the back served as a chicken coop. A neat pile of chopped wood was stacked against the house.
Dust lay over every surface like dirty snow, pristine dust layer, not a foot print anywhere, papers and letters addressed to no one were piled up to the letter box and cascaded all the way to the foot of the rough wooden stairs, old tea cups lay on a coffee table thickly encrusted with dried up mould, dust covered mirrors, smell of mildew, stale air, air thick with dust, shafts of light bursting through gaps in the boarded up window, light streaming through the gaps in the heavy velvet curtains, absolute silence, the houses only occupants weaved their webs between the spindles of the stair banisters and from the ceiling to the wall, old cobwebs billowed in the draft. The grim and gloomy building was the worst excuse for a house she'd ever seen; it was more like a long-a
The State Police car had pulled up in front of a large three-story frame house with faded and discolored paint and jigsaw scrollwork around the cornices, standing among a clump of trees beside the road.
The house that Caleb lived in was in a narrow rocky valley. A stream of water ran over a sandy bed, in front of the house, and a rugged mountain towered behind it. Across the stream, too, there was a high, rocky hill, which was in full view from the parlour window. This hill was covered with wild evergreens, which clung to their sides, and to the interstices of the rocks; and mosses, green and brown, in long festoons, hung from their limbs. Here and there crags and precipices peeped out from among the foliage, and a grey old cliff towered above, at the summit.
Shepard's house was no exception. A big Colonial with white cedar shingles weathered silver, and blue shutters at all the windows. It was on a slight rise of ground on the ocean side of Ocean Street.
Matilda saw a narrow dirt-path leading to a tiny red-brick cottage. The cottage was so small it looked more like a doll's house than a human dwelling. The bricks it was build of were old and crumbly and very pale red. It had a grey slate roof and one small chimney, and there were to little windows at the front. Each window was no larger than a sheet of tabloid newspaper and there was clearly no upstairs to the place. On either side of the path there was a wilderness of nettles and blackberry thorns and long brown grass, An enormous oak tree stood overshadowing the cottage. It's massive spreading branches seemed to be enfolding and embracing the tiny building, and perhaps hiding it as well from the rest of the world.
The house he lived in was a nondescript affair called the San Bernardino Arms. It was an oblong three stories high, the back and sides of which were plain, unpainted stucco, broken by even rows of unadorned windows. The facade was the color of diluted mustard and it's windows, all double, were framed by pink Moorish columns which supported turnip-shaped lintels.
Daily, I looked at houses to rent - shotgun cottages by the rail yards, ski chalets with circular fireplaces, and a house that was built under a small hill, for energy reasons. Finally I found one I liked, a cedar A-frame cabin with a wood stove and a sleeping loft and a flower box with marigolds.
He walked to the little porch which adjoined the kitchen and stood there gazing out. On this side of the house there was a row of cedars which bordered his property, slanting downward toward the bay. Beneath them the earth was naked of grass, shadowed, cool-looking...
Found in Lie Down in Darkness, authored by .
it was sitting on the crest of the hill, positioned, staring over the marshes. Its hair was a green ivy, swamping it in a green façade, French windows peeking through the green like mischievous eyes through a long fringe. The house looked almost as if it was natural as it was blended into the green garden by the ivy clambering up its side. The skin of red bricks looked as if they had been burnt by the sun. The garden sloping down steeply down towards the marsh as if it was a pedestal for the house: presenting it in all its grandness. The house was beautifully symmetrical, two wings stretching to each side reaching out to touch the fences on each side. The house positioned over the marshes with a view of the river drunkenly meandering its way to the edge of the horizon.
The house is one of those ones rich people buy when they get paranoid about having too much money. It's like a fortress, tall gates with more security gadgets than a military compound. Perhaps behind those yellow bricks they feel safe from harm, but I can't help think they've only built themselves a beautiful prison. Either way though, it's none of my concern, I'm just here for the political endorsement Mr. Holden wants. So with a quick check of my hired suit I lean into the intercom and state my business. In moments a security guard is striding over the pea shingle, each footfall marked with a crunch. His weapon is holstered but his face is still serious. This is where he takes my identification and runs background checks.
The house has seen better days. Years ago that blue paint was a smooth unbroken layer and the window frames were a brilliant white on top of new wood. Twenty cycles of the seasons with no thought to maintenance has reduced it to the kind of place that realtors hate to list. Without opening the door it's easy to tell that it will be damp and dirty with fixtures so out of date they reduce the selling price. But for me it's perfect. I don't have the money for this neighbourhood unless I renovate what no-one else wants.
The house was identical to it's neighbours right down to the shade of paint on the iron balconies, but I knew which one was Edna's right away. Whereas every other dwelling was simply the towering black brick, hers was a riot of blooms in every shade. Along the rail hung boxes and below were hanging baskets. So without even checking the humber on the door I wrapped the brass lion knocker three times and waited. In a brief lull of the London traffic I heard the approaching of footfalls. The door opened a crack and a hazel eye peeked out.
It was a very old house, you could have already told from its design. The door in the centre, a square window (divided into quarters) on each side of the door. She opened the door slowly for fear of breaking it. It creaked. She stepped onto the damp wooden floorboards and, amazingly, it held her weight. The floor was strewn with half rotten food, and overgrown bushes that used to belong to a lush garden that had grown into the house through the windows. She ran her hand across the old table, which still had intricate carvings on it, and headed on to the stairs which spiralled around one thin pillar. The paint was already peeling, but the memories it contained didn't fall off so easily. She precariously took a step up. Her footprints were the only ones in the dust and bunnies gathered for more than a year. Waiting for a family that never came back, except her...
Standing alone on a forbidden road,
Ships sinking behind closed doors,
Trapped by jagged eerie moors,
Obliterated by the rapidly falling night,
A single siren in the distance,
A useless resistance.