Night - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
I found the darkness strange. Living in the heart of a city, I had grown used to having the warming, orange glow of streetlamps outside my window, their light filtering in through the gaps in the curtains. This was a blackness that I couldn't recall seeing before - one that was almost absolute. When I tilted my head skyward I could see clearly millions of bright stars dotted on the black canvas of night, yet none of that light seemed to filter far enough down to make any difference when I turned my eyes away.
When the twilight fades to blackness it lights a fire inside my guts. It burns away the drabness of the day, the clock in and the clock out, the mechanized life, robotic and cold. The night means downtown is lit by the neon lights of the clubs and bars, shinning on the rain-kissed sidewalks. At night you can be anybody and no-one cares who you really are. So in my retro outfit from an era even my mother never knew, I step into the darkness. The stars are somewhere behind the haze of black cloud that is stretched thinly above and the transitory moonlight bleaches the grey-scale world momentarily, and then it is gone. My mind is a blur with possibilities, each more fanciful than the next.
The eerie darkness of that night would never escape my memory. I clearly remember the pitch-black curtain draped over the sky, and the twisted, warped shapes that the stars made against the blackness. The milky speckles twirled and danced along the sky in various patterns, tugging at the corners of my lips in a way that almost made me smile. It was hard to shove aside the worries corrupting my mind, but eventually, I stopped walking over the soft sand below my feet and just... stopped thinking. I was alone. Nothing from my life could touch me. Not a single thing could harm me. I stared up at the sky and studied the silver glow of the moon. She smiled down at me with love so intense it warmed my soul like a fireplace on a cold winter's night. And there I was, standing on the shore at midnight to escape my life at home, not wanting to do anything but cry. But the look that the moon gave me didn't cause the storm to go on inside of me. Instead, a hot blue fire flickered in my heart and soon started to grow, eating at all of the dark emotions in its path. My worries burned away, and the tears that were starting to form at the corners of my eyes melted down my cold face with a rush of relief.
Crying felt good, especially when they were tears that I didn't want to push away. They weren't drops of sadness, no. They were more like the feelings of joy, relief, happiness and freedom streaming away from my hurt eyes. They were temporary cleaners to wash away the pain. I never cried, it just wasn't me. But that night, under the protection of millions of stars and the beautiful moon, I felt like I could let the floodgates open with a single snap of my fingers. I stared up at the sky and continued to let my pain run away for the moment. The cold midnight waves rolled in and tickled my feet as I stood on the beach, not ever wanting to leave.
The lingering light was obliterated by the rapidly falling night. The once salmon and purple sky transformed into a vast expanse of jet-black that engulfed the town. A canopy of luminous stars materialized amongst the ocean of blackness. Some were dull, merely flickering into existence every now and then, but there was an adequate amount of shimmering stars to illuminate the dark, moonless night. The lake glistened, mirroring the dazzling assemblage of glittering stars and the luminescence from the restaurants and designer boutiques that lined the marina. The faint wind brushed against the water’s surface, the ripples ruffled the stillness of the surface, and shattered the reflection of the harbour.
The sun has gone to rest, the moon takes his place as the darkness begins to surround me. I like the night, it hides my flaws, my imperfections, the scars burned onto my flesh, the stabs of knives left behind. The moon guides me through the night. Her calming presence makes me slowly close my eyes, my body quietly switching off; but she lets my soul run free. I can do the things I would never be allowed to do when the sun is out. I can do whatever I want…as my worries, my thoughts, silently burn into smoke as they wonder through the endless night once more.
Nighttime had always been the time when the demons residing within me came out to play; to bring out the worst in me. But, that day was different, that day my angels decided to shield me from the darkness, pain and agony. My heart didn’t throb; my soul became a bird in the sky. With every moment came peace, and, with every breath, exuberance. All I could think of was happy, and only happy.
The old father clock in the corner of the living room chimed. Night had finally befallen me, wrapping the day in its dark blanket, filling the inky night sky with its specks of light - the sun slowly set against the horizon allowing the full moon rise to its glorious beauty.
Sweet-smelling rain-washed darkness, sky freckled with stars. Smudgy illumination of a lamppost, sky sprinkled with stars.
The woods always look different at night. Even with the glasses, everything has an unfamiliar slant to it. As if the daytime trees and flowers and stones had gone to bed and sent slightly more ominous versions of themselves to take their places.
We light our fires long before nightfall. By the time the trees look like charcoalized versions of their daytime selves our faces are aglow with flickering orange. When our intense plotting lulls we hear movement in the dry autumnal leaves. They are the reason we chose this time of year to make our move. It's hard to be stealthy over the crunchy woodland floor. We scatter into the blackness for cover and wait. The moon is new, the stars be-speckle the sky but cast nothing to lift the impenetrable inky blanket concealing us. Then sure enough a scout moves forward toward the burning logs and checks our tents. We aim but don't shoot. This is the most expendable member of their troop, we wait for the chief.
Summer night luminous with starlight, moon full and bright. He strolled through the inky darkness of the mid-winter night.
The rain was even sharper as they turned to the corner of the building and the lights attempted to pierce the blackness of the hour.
The night had rolled in over Saint-Pierre, bringing with it the threat of a summer storm. The air was still and heavy, and thick clouds blotted out the stars.
In the dead of night even the city lights ebbed to a mere inkling. The city lights dwindled to a smattering of stubborn night owls.
After a blisteringly hot day the sun had finally set, the relief from the hot moistureless air was palpable as the cooling sea breeze swept over them.
The night sky stood an inky canopy of darkness freckled only by the fewest of stars, where just hours ago it had been a blue summer's day. The occasional hoot of a hidden owl was the only sound to permeate the silence until a chorus of slapping footsteps and crunching gravel echoed angrily into the emptiness of the night. As voices quickly followed, the owl ommited a screech of protest and took flight.
Outside in the middle of darkness,
The evening has just been over.
Filling up with small specks of light,
Shinning like a million fireflies.
The blackness little by little fading,
The moon has just arrived.
The house once again depicted an obscure cavern of brimming darkness, which was not abnormal to Dan. It was his mother’s presence which bought significant light similar to illuminating gleam of sunshine which brighten up the home and soften his father’s heart and make their residence a place where the stars meet after they have shone all night for the nocturnal dwellers basking around in the night serenity.
The horse’s pace slowed after an hour and by three hours, it was a quick, albeit weary, trot. Her legs were stiff from being held in the same position. Her horse’s heavy pants mingled with her own. Her muscles ached and her tongue was dry and brittle. She licked her parched, chapped lips. She hopped to stumble over a stream or lake soon. Dim sunlight tinted the sky gray and the stars were slowly being blotted out, beginning with the faintest stars and eventually washing over the vivid, bright stars. The day was foggy and chilly. She hugged her bare arms tightly.
Then I went out to the courtyard. The night was clear. The toothed roof-edge, the watchman with his spear and horn, stood black against the stars.
Full moon, moon-bleached stone path, eerie stillness, almost sinister. White owl swept silently overhead.
The moon under siege by stars seemed to lighten the night bringing forth stars that shone and hung in the blackness. The never ending blackness consumed everything. Except the stars which stood out like pebbles in front of a storm. Ever enduring these shone with the night cowered in a inky black sky (linked to squids). It seemed like guerrilla warfare as the darkness controlled the sky yet the stars controlled the gleaming spots of where they originated. The war continued across the constellations.
Hours before the dawn-light brings the colours back to the streets, I'm heading down the cracked sidewalk with Darwin on my hip. I figured he'd be all sleepy and just snuggle in, but he's more awake than noon-time. His eyes raise to the stars and he points, not knowing what to call them. He's no stranger to darkness of course, and part of me is surprised he isn't afraid, but this cloudless be-speckled night is all new. It tell him “stars” and he wiggles up and down, grinning like it's his birthday. He can almost say the word too, or at least the start of it...
The faint lingering lilac sky fading into the shadow. As if it was a routine, the shimmering sparkles of star brilliantly silhouetted into the darkness. A trembling gush of wind inaudibly drifted across the skyline. As the tedious day sluggishly came to an end, there comes the time to unwind the tenseness and rigidness of our fragile bones. The blinding city lights gradually subsided ever so subtly, filling the shadow-emitted sky with a pleasant silence.
The night had rolled in over the beach, bringing with it a threat of a winter storm. The air was still, heavy and thick clouds blotted out stars. The once blue sky transformed into a vast expanse of jet-black. The sea glistened, mirroring the dazzling assemblage of the pale white moon. The moon was a wraith-silver disc hanging in the lonely sky. Lasers of moonlight, as bright as diamond-flame, turned the sea a-glow like melted platinum. The waves were a-glitter like curved scales. The faint wind brushed against the water's surface, the ripples ruffled the stillness of the surface, and shattered the reflection.
There was a time I avoided Bodiam. God knows the bloodshed that has been on the castle ramparts and soaking into moss covered ground these past centuries. Not anymore though. I've come to crave the experiences of nighttime, when the stars kiss the sky, decorating the heavens above like the most exquisite jewels. Beauty beyond human creation, all for simply raising my eyes instead of watching the timid footfalls that take me toward the aging drawbridge.
It was here I discovered my thirst for life after sunset, seeking ghosts and whatever else prefers the world without the glare of the sun. In this shadowless black my ears are perfect, my senses heightened. The once glorious castle has succumbed to the weather of countless years, the cold grey stone stoic in each storm. Once I stand with boots upon damp wood, I kneel to take in the watery aroma. In the clamour of the day it is lost beneath the hubbub of the tourists; yet in the sweet moonlit solitude the heady scent of summer is thick, so different from the winter chill I inhaled only months ago.
Once I would have staked across these planks not caring for the noise I made, but no longer. Each step is soft and soundless. At the iron grille I curl my fingers around the metal that has already leached the heat of the day into the air. It is quite cold, surprisingly so. There is something about the lack of other people that allows me to imagine without boarders - allowing my creative mind to surge with new ideas. In those precious extended moments poetry comes as if from the ether, in full form without struggle, arriving as thick as arrows on a committed foe.
History blows in the soft breeze and calls from the skyward bound walls. In these nocturnal castle rambles, I can loose myself and find inspiration. What else can a writer ask for?
impenetrable and disorientating blackness, stars visible, black and grey clouds, crescent moon. Procession of headlights on the highway.
The night brought an unrelenting darkness that wrapped their eyes and mouths, burying them beneath a starless sky. The air had thickened, the temperature dropped and nowhere was there a comforting sound.
The sky has long since darkened from bleak gray to familiar black by the time you take to the streets once again. The relentless downpour of the morning has since tapered off into a softly falling mist which manages to paint the area in a strangely fanciful light - people have emerged with umbrellas and smiles for their evening meals and entertainment, the light of the street lamps catches on the tiny droplets of water granting each lantern a delicate golden aura, and for a few moments, the strangeness of the city is far from your mind.
The night was starless and the moon was covered my murky clouds that blended in with the rest of the sky.
The Darkness took everything. It sucked the glowing marrow from the campfires, plucked the stars from the sky like a land baron fingering grapes from the vine. Not even the sun was spared as it plunged to the ground never to return. The Darkness came and brought with it the haunts and spooks that gather at our doors at night pleading to be let in. We are abandoned now in this never ending night. We are the children Chroma forgot and have now become the play things of something long forgotten. We have killed the God of Light and something worse has replaced him.