nights - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The winds were always frigid here. Barren and dark with not a star shinning through the mist. The moon was dim and cold. The rivers water ragged from the boyne to lake, in rapid swells. The ice and hoarfrost that hung in trees, dripped icy fire down the backs of our necks. Nothing stirred and nothing spoke. Only the howls of wolves and their rancid breaths cut through the still air.
That far north the nights were twenty hours long. Sitting in the cabin's artificial light it was easy to loose track of time. The temperature plummeted to minus thirty without the sun and if the wind picked up it could be far colder. When we ventured outside the blackness was almost absolute, you could wave a hand in front of your face and not see it. On clear nights we observed the constellations and in a few months could recognize the patterns that were so obscure at the start. We counted time by the wax and wane of the moon, when it was full we celebrated with hot coffee and a cookie from our outside freezer box and checked off another month.
River kept watch in the nights and Willow the days. Weeks passed like that, only ever seeing one another in the sallow light of evening or the soft dawn rays. The nights were a time when anyone on the move had strong motives to be about, and reasons like that could make the nicest of folks into dangerous enemies. River sat by the window with not a light on, the street barely visible with the street-lamps broken, he always was a good shot with the stones. As he waited, Willow's slow breathing behind him, there were hours to consider their next move. Somehow the blackness was good for thinking, without any distraction his mind wandered as if the usual regimented paths had been removed. When Willow stirred it was time to move out and do what they had to before it was River's turn to sleep.
Nights brought noises that belonged to neither man nor beast. The cooler air vibrated with the low-pitched reverberations and we killed every light in the village, hoping to stay hidden under a velvet blanket so dark it had to be heaven sent. Our skins bristled with any variation in the wind, our eyes expanded to make use of the starlight and the trees around us took on a more earthy aroma.
Nights pass, those dream-filled parts of our lives we loose like jigsaw puzzle pieces. They are the time we reboot, recharge. Long gone are our party days, our carefree days. The last time we were aware of those dark hours was with newborns in our arms; now we never want to see them again. So when Casey insists we start meeting at night to throw off the watchers we balk at first, yet stepping out beneath the stars tonight brings us alive in a way we haven't been for years.
The day time drudgery steals from us, but the nights give back ten fold. When the white brilliance of the sun has passed the night becomes a vibrant ball of every colour. The air becomes infused with energy, smiles are contagious and laughter echoes from every cafe and bar. People don't walk but saunter, there is nowhere to be in a hurry and hours stretch toward the distant dawn.
Nights in this city are as busy as the days, probably more so. The daylight calls the commuters to their cardboard pens, to sit and be still. Nights are for the suppressed chaos to rise. Nights are for the frustration of their days to be converted to noise and crazy dance. Nights are for their primitive minds to be unleashed in anything but blackness. They come, lit by neon and pumped by fast movement on the sidewalks and the streets. There are citizens who call for all this to stop, for us to sink into quiet respectability, but they lack so much understanding. It is only because we can explode in the nights that we can punch the clock in the daytime. One cannot exist without the other.
Ven left the city at that dark hour of the night shortly before half-light. Stars still splashed across the sky like the Gods' own silver splattered blood. The night was pitch black save for the tremendous heavens above and the occasional flicker of flame from a scarce passing guard - making rounds on the few patrols of the late night that came just before morning light. As soon as she was on the road, hooves of her horse beating hard down on the stone of the road, the lights were gone and it was only her, the darkness, and the guiding light of Divine's heavens above.