old house - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The old house is the sanity of these hills, the ever present home amid such change. I can remember each brick for as far back as my memory goes, touch them, feel the texture that has greeted strong summers and hail stones with such dignity. How I love the blue door, some years weather worn and in others sporting a shiny new coat, and imagine its pride in showing the countryside it is still loved. In my daydreams I sit by it in a wicker chair listening to the village, of the chattering wildlife around. I imagine that it is my home, that the calling of the years somehow takes me there.
The old house must have been little more than a glorified shed even in it's hay day. But now it looked for all the world like a giant had sat on the roof, for it sagged terribly. The windows were gaping holes for the wind to rush in and out through and the door hung on it's hinges at a jaunty angle, although now it was really just a frame. It was a rotting heap, bowing down, subservient to the elements
This house outlasted the others because it's made of concrete. Floor, roof, ceiling. Only one of four glass windows remains, wavy and yellowed by time. There's no plumbing and no electricity, but the fireplace still works and there's a woodpile in the corner that my father and I collected years ago.
Milo could never run up the stairs in the old cottage. Every one of them was a different height from the last, making it impossible to properly judge how high to lift his foot. Either it was too high and he stumbled forward with his foot fell beneath where he was expecting it to stop; or he kicked the step lip with his socked foot. Had they been carpeted like the ones in his friends suburban homes it might not have been so bad, but in this old cottage they were unforgiving grey stone; cold as a castle but without the precision or attention to detail.
The old house seemed to have collapsed inwardly on itself somewhat, like a loaf of bread taken out of the oven too soon. The roof sagged and the cedar shingles stuck up in places like wonky teeth. The windows had no glass in them now and they seemed not to be quite rectangular anymore. The lean-to shed on the side hung downwards as if the fight had left it and it could no longer bring itself to stand up agains the elements. In the high winds of the season the old house could be heard to creak as if in it's death throes. The grass grew long and unkempt around it and in that grass were tracks made by the local children who dared each other to go there in the twilight to search for ghosts.
For the ex-NYPD detective the old 1920's house had certain advantages. There was a secret cellar from the days of prohibition, so well concealed it would remain undiscovered even in a police raid. Under a flagstone that looked just like all the others was a shaft leading directly to to an abandoned cow tunnel, perfect for moving the "merchandise" in and out. The driveway was obscured from the road by a tall rock wall, ancient, but simple enough to add security paraphernalia to. It was the perfect place for his new organization. He put in a low-ball offer so as not to look suspicious and grumbled about the exorbitant cost of repairs.
Time had performed irreversible deeds upon the once proud and mighty mansion of Mayherne. The steeple that once could be seen from anywhere in the village owing to its polished glean no longer shined, a rusty relic of ages gone by. Bricks and cement had been eroded away, washing the colours from the once beautiful building. But from within, the magic lived on. Great halls of chandeliers and tables lay stagnant, dusty, yet held the weight of many parties, songs, dances. The floors lay expectant, as if wishing for one last pair of boots to walk by.
Their grandmother's home was a living museum. She had never bought anything more modern than the 1960's. Everything was original or refurbished retro, like the house itself. Although the tangerine and fuchsia walls were right out of her favourite era the paint was barely a year old. The floral prints were bold and the furniture sparse and simple. In the lobby sat an orange telephone with it's large dialling disk and curled cable dangling from the receiver. It struck Jenny that this was the first time the little house had looked dusty and the first time she had walked in to no Beetles music. It was as if the spirit of the house had gone with her and these objects left behind were only empty shells of their former selves. Likely the new owner would just tear it down and build something new, but somehow she didn't think she'd come to watch the diggers raise this little wooden rancher to the ground. Out of every inch poured the memories of her childhood summers...
The old house belonged in a story book. It's roof was a thick thatch of straw and it's walls were painted candy pink. The square windows were mullioned and edged thickly in white. It looked just about big enough for one old lady to live there, devoting her life to the country garden that lay about it.
The old-fashioned house next door was as badly in need of improvements as the one undergoing alterations. The dingy brick walls were streaked by the drippage from the leaky tin gutter that ran along the roof. The massive shutters, thrown back from the long windows, were rotting away. Below the lifted panes very clean worn curtains hung slack like things exhausted by the heat.
The old house looked like a miniature fairy book castle after a typhoon had passed by. The main body of the house was a rectangle, but added on were curved portions that looked like towers with grey peaked roof tops. The outside of the old house was covered in a kind of tile that had been ripped away in places to expose the wooden skeleton beneath and part of the roof had also been torn off. May of the windows were boarded up. Perhaps this little kingdom was once loved and the owners prepared it to weather a storm before departing, only to find on their return that it had become a structurally unsound wreck.
Against the midnight blue sky the house looked just like any other in the district, red brick with a peaked roof of slate. In the daylight its state was more apparent. The bricks were of another era, not solid red like the others but swirled with other hues giving the two storey dwelling a mottled look. The window frames were not the ubiquitous plastic of the estate not far away, but wooden with large flakes of white paint lying like dandruff. Tara walked a little closer, finding the lack of reflection in the windows peculiar. She almost laughed. There was no glass, of course, why would there be? She knew the place was old, but she wondered when it was abandoned and why. It would take capital to fix, a hundred thousand or more, but the walls were still firm and the roof only needed a patch. Gutted and redone it could be quite fine.
The window is a hundred years older than the one in my house yet perfect in every way. The glass, though clear, is as thick as a beer bottle. Each rectangle, no bigger than a dollar-store notebook, is held in place with black iron. Like the stone walls it was built to last. Though it must have been so much harder to make, the top is a gentle arch rather than flat. I want to lift it from its little hole and take it home with me but I'd never get it out, and even if I did it would weigh a tonne.
Draughty corridors, cold air seeps under doors like the tide on a fridgid desolate beach. Icy and bitter wind rattles the condensation covered single paned windows, water lazily drips to the rotting sill with it's dirty cream cracked paint. Spiders scurry in dark corners, their old webs flap in dusty silence, clinging to the wall with their ghostly fingers.
The old house that crumbled like old bread was ugly.
Ancient floorboards, rotting floorboards, creaking floorboards, latches on solid oak doors, creaking floor boards, ancient mullioned windows set in grey stone walls, walls lined with dark oak panels, ceiling lined with massive wooden beams, spiral staircase, kitchen that’s seen better days, black and white tiled kitchen floor like a chequer board, noisy hum of old refrigerator, chipped vinyl counters, arga cooker with fire lit. Black slate roof, grey stone chimney, dishevelled neglected garden with mossy stepping stone path, paint peeling from half-height five bar gate.
When the faucet finally gives way the old copper pipes start to sing - a chorus from the crumbling brick an plaster. The water doesn't flow, but splutters, spitting it out in chaotic bursts. Adam reaches forward only to retract his hand even faster. It isn't simply cold water, it's orange and dirt flecked. Somewhere down the line is an iron pipe. He glanced over his shoulder at Chloe who gave a brief nod, face stoic, before bending to drink.
Missing the last time it heard the precious laughter of young children at play, the old house stood abandoned on the unweeded lawn; as the wretched and worn down timber walls slowly collected mold and dust from the cold morning dew, the first soft drop of rain calmly fell on the arid rooftop.