midday - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
In the unrelenting glare of midday the only shadow is that which pools at my feet. The strong sun on my white hair will burn me in minutes if I don't find shelter. Wherever I choose must be a good place to lay low until the late evening, these rays aren't dying anytime soon. All the better if it's some place so foul that no-one has looted it yet. I prefer to make use of my time.
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by .
The sun is above my head, baking my dark hair, slowly simmering my brain in its cerebral fluid. I want to seek shade but that will only make me later, and I'm late enough already. As my feet pound the hot tarmac I keep an eye on my shadow. Any significant shape beyond this blobby puddle that laps my toes and I'm in deep trouble. Getting there later than one o'clock means being fired, and these gangs don't just hand you a pink slip. Despite the heat I begin to run, sweat washing mascara into my eyes, stinging...
From the pool of shadow that bathes my feet and nothing else, I know it is midday. But in this late fall the sun has lost its intensity, I can step out without fear of burning. Only a few weeks ago the streets would have been deserted at this time of day, but now the street vendors carry on selling and there is no shortage of customers.
The midday sun was the only good thing about the day. All about was snow, ice and everything that sapped your heat. But that sun promised to give some back, to fall gently on your chilled skin and remind you that spring would follow. Were it not for our sunglasses it's glare would render us quite blind and likely it's warming was only imagined, but we loved it all the same. Noon each day would find us climbing the lane toward the mailbox in snow-shoes.
At midday everything shuts down. The market holders have gone, the streets are bare. Until three the heat will rain down in such oppressiveness that the only sensible thing to do is sleep it off in the coolness of a subterranean basement amongst your liquor. Even the police are gone, back the station. Who's going to rob now? Running at these temperatures would just bake your lungs.
It was midday and we could see the heat shimmering off the parked cars like a haze. In heat like this the tarmac is like a frying pan and going outside, out of the air conditioning, feels like walking into an oven. But that's Texas summers for you.
In the Seattle July the midday sun was deliciously warm, as it rose we felt our spirits rise with it. It was the first real warmth of the summer and we were ready for it. We took out the patio furniture and basked like lizards. If it weren't for the sunscreen we would have burnt for sure, but we'd slathered it on before we went out.
A malevolent unblinking yellow eye stares down at me from the cloudless sky. In a child's picture book it look would look friendly and gay. But here in the Sahara there is nothing friendly about it. Here the midday sun is your enemy and you'd better show it some respect. Or else you will learn your lessons the hard way, and trust me, that's not the way you want to do it.
The sun was at it's highest. The heat beat down on my head like I was bacon under the grill. I could almost smell myself cooking. I stood in my own shadow puddle with crisp edges that moved as I swayed in the sultry heat. It was Midday. They say only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun. I'm not English. So I guess I must be a mad dog.