lights flickering - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The strobe light at the club last week had had us all hyped up, everybody dancing, lookin' like a series of crazy stills from some epic movie. But here in the flickering light of the old house, still hours from twilight, we bundled our panic into our chests and breathed rapidly. It gave us the same snapshots as that strobe had, but now we didn't focus on those brief illuminations, but instead on the dark. The dark swallowed our racing thoughts and stole our body heat. The dark wound around our limbs and veiled our eyes. The dark lay silent, a willing host to all of our imagined fears.
In the intermittent bursts of artificial white light we see the wreck that was once our school. Everything is as it was, just cold and deserted. These corridors that were once so packed I would weave my way to next class like a fish against the current are now waiting for gravity and weather to return this land to nature.
I don't just see the bulb flicker, I hear it too. As we are cast into brief spells of darkness it crackles, or perhaps its more of a buzz. I'm not sure. All I know is I don't want to be in here when the light goes out. This room is creepy enough in the daylight with those cracked walls bleeding moisture from the sodden earth outside.
The light we have taken for granted in this subterranean laboratory starts to stutter into blackness; at first the flickers are wildly space apart, yet soon they become so close together that there is more darkness than light. Parker's heart is beating so fast I can see his pulse jumping in his neck during the brief illuminations. Every face has a sheen that has nothing to do with the temperature, that at least remains perfect.
This basement just went all halloween. The light flickers chaotically, more like a joker flicking the switches up and down instead of it being a struggling electricity supply. I stop, expecting to hear Casey begin to snicker, laughing at my offended expression. He doesn't though. He doesn't and then I notice the pattern - morse code. A message...
The lights above start to flicker like an old movie reel, but this is no theatre. In this corrugated shipping container the light is the only thing keeping these hundred or so people cramped in here with me from loosing their God-given minds. We weren't promised comfort, food or even water until we reach the other side of the city wall; but we need light. Perhaps we were naive to think that the smugglers would care; we are cargo now. But after years in the gutters where darkness means a knife comes next, or worse, the robbing of your vision is enough to put most folks over the edge. Their faces are now strobed, but they don't move in funny stilted images. They are cast as hard as concrete and just as grey, even the children. In each momentary snippet of blackness we all die a little, only to come alive again in the next sallow burst of yellow.
The dim lights flickered, casting a crepuscular glow within the room.
When the patrols come the lights flicker. It looks like a simple problem with the mains. It isn't. Grayson rigged a device to their frequency that causes it, an early warning system even the coppers haven't thought of. The light flickers and we turn rebellion HQ into a normal house before they're even in our street. By the time they knock on our door just old Betsy is home, sweet ol' grandma, silver bun and all, bleary eyes and covered in cat hair.