iron gate - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The iron gate was fashioned to look antique but the hinges were undoubtedly new. Of course it could have been rehung but it's making bore the marks of machine tools not available a hundred years ago. The house beyond it was a shell, or so it appeared. So why a new gate? Mac scanned the stone walls for inconsistencies and at first he saw none, just moss and lichen. But then he just caught a familiar noise, a small motor, like one used to move a camera. He radioed in "nothing suspicious" in a deliberately audible volume and returned to his silver Honda Civic, utterly unmarked and ubiquitous within Vancouver, although perhaps not this neighbourhood.
The iron gate had been forged a century ago. It was a clear six feet tall and made of twisted black rods. At the end some were curled in convoluted patterns and opportunist spiders had created webs there. The latch lifted with ease and it swung open almost without sound. Whatever this place was it was occupied and maintained. Feeling something was out of place I backed up and started to scan the old stone walls for cameras or other hidden devices.
Unlike a gate of wood that was common to the neighbourhood, this one was fashioned from black iron. She had seen pictures of such gates in story books, artistic and pretty. This one looked like it's maker had had an imagination lobotomy. It was just a rectangle with bars from top to bottom - more like something from a prison than a garden centre. Saskia pressed her nose into the gap and moved her eyeballs side to side. Then she saw the tell-tale twitch of a curtain beyond. She huffed. Why put such a gate here if you don't want people to look?
Saskia bounded over the tufted grass and over the brow of the hill, but instead of letting her limbs gather speed all the way to the creek she stopped as if her feet were magnetized to the field. There in the middle of the grassy expanse was the most pointless gate in the world; taller than her father, iron, with curls on it's curls and a top that reminded her of the mosque. On either side there was no fence at all, it's blackened catch dangled in mid-air as if resting on some unseen barrier. It was some kind of joke! Excellent! She rushed on it like the last iced buns at the market and lifted the latch. About now someone should reveal themselves, but they didn't. It swung forwards with a creak as if it were mounted on hinges. Saskia took out her phone for a picture, automatically uploading it to Facebook. Then she walked right though, another selfie on the threshold. Had she turned back she would have seen no gate at all, an empty field, with the hedgerow taller...
In the course of my rambles I chanced one day to pass a rusty iron gate fastened by an equally rusty chain, the base of which was partially concealed by tall, rank grass, showing that it had not been opened for a long time. The gate was hung upon two stone piers covered with lichen. On the top of one was a stone globe. That which had surmounted the other had been removed, or had fallen off through the action of time and weather.