ice - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The street was decorated like a birthday cake, frosting everywhere! And how fitting, to Jenny the start of winter was like a gift. She sucked in the cold air and felt it enter like a tonic. There were long days on the slopes ahead, skiing, snowboarding and making snow angels. Sure the street was slippery, but that was just part of winter. As she made her way down the street she was warmer than she had been in summer time, and she smiled delicately under the morning sun.
At first glance Mica would have sworn it was chunks of clear glass, given the temperature, it was the most likely guess. But when he bent to pick up a piece he almost screamed. It was cold, ice cold, and wet to the touch. What the hell was ice doing way out here? And why so large and irregular? Each piece had at least the volume of an oversized mug. He could only imagine them being used as weapons of some sort, maybe shot from afar, and so he spun around on his heels casting wild eyes to the horizon. Empty. He pulled out his knife regardless, this was a surprise and he didn't like them, not even on birthdays.
The water that had run so freely in the failing light of dusk was now trapped in icy form, beautiful under the glare of a flashlight but as solid as the frozen ground under boot. Gaila ungloved a hand and reached out to touch, recoiling as soon as she made contact. It wasn't just ice it was unnaturally cold. The kind of coldness that left her unable to warm without retreating back inside. If this was a taste of the winter to come she wasn't sure it would be that much fun. Sure the snow was pretty, but in a few weeks would it still be a little fun? Or would it simply be more white falling from dark skies? Already her money was on the latter but she could see her younger brother's eyes light up. Any day he could ski was a good day for him; the cold never bothered him - but then he was never foolish enough to unglove in the subzero wasteland.
Icicles dangled from the shadowy skeletons of trees, each one like an ominous sword of Damocles. The river, frozen solid, was covered with ice so thick that it showed reflections as clear as a mirror of the heavy, grey sky. The chill breeze slicing through the air seemed to whisper "ice... ice... ice..."
Holden stops. The pond is strange. The ice isn't flat like it should be but broken, more like the bark of a tree. In the cracks the water is mis-coloured, more like glacial melt water in its brilliant blue. He crouches down to detect the aroma, it's like nothing he's ever smelt before, not bitter, not sweet, not like pollution. Taking a stick he pokes at the ice and it's as solid as it looks. He dips the stick into the water and moves in just the way it should, just slower. The ripples radiate out as he expected, but almost as if in slow motion. He takes his eyes off the water and stands up, listening and watching. All is quiet. Hardly even a breeze in the trees. Yet somewhere in the trees a bird sings in normal time, a melody he's heard a thousand times over and never before.
The ice melts just a little under my hand, enough for my fingers and palm to be wet. It's deep though, there's no way I can get through it that way. Already the skin feels as chilled as it does when I rearrange the freezer at home. I open and close it to get the blood flowing again and stick it back in my pocket to warm up. I stare at the little catch, such a small piece of metal, but it's enough to keep the gate firmly shut. Climbing over isn't much of an option either, the stairs on the other side are more treacherous than I've seen this winter. I take a step back. It's a longer way around the roads to get there, but arriving in one piece is more important. I give the ice one final stare as if my anger can melt it before stalking off in a pointless huff.
The ice broke in front of the ship like brittle frosting on a cake. Chunks as big as cars were cleaved to each side on the prow in the icy depths.
The ice covered the road at the corner like death's welcome mat. It was black and impossible to see, waiting for the first commuter in a hurry to get to work.
Cold, wet, slippery and hard. Black ice impossible to see, skidding, out of control, dangerous, deadly, lethal, treacherous. Icicles, glistening, dripping, like winter's daggers. Ice crystals sparkle on roof tops, beautiful, white, gleaming.
At school I would describe my house as an ice palace, for we got icicles on the porch bigger than dragon teeth and the roof sparkled white under a blanket of freezing crystals. Our driveway became a deathly sheet of black ice. Even the windows became frosted.
Yesterday's water was now an unbroken sheet of dark ice. The surface was glass-like and with as much give as concrete. Zen heaved the sack of rock salt and tipped until his tupperware was full. He put an exploratory toe on the surface. It was more slippery than a freshly waxed floor; moving forwards he spread the salt like chicken feed. With each step he felt his foot move in an unpredictable way, but he'd done this every winter since they moved up north. It was just part of life here, and in a way he kinda liked it. They had thick coats, warm boots and snow tires...
The ice chinked merrily in my glass as I returned to my friends.