old wood floor - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The old wooden floor is as many hued as the woodland it was once felled from. Its fate to be cut and varnished rather than to rot on the floor with the centuries of fallen autumnal leaves. The surface is pitted, each mark the start of a story that will never be told. It has been the silent witness to so much life, the good and bad. Oliver takes his hand, and spreads it broadly over the surface, his span now equal to any man. Feeling the imperfections feels like direct link to the past he has little recollection of. In those grooves is dirt long ago dragged in by his father's boots and pushed downward by his mother's angry sweeping. He neither smiles nor frowns as he draws himself to stand, merely tipping his hat to the empty house and leaving without a backward glance.
Though the exterior of the house has suffered many winters and storm seasons, the old wooden floor has been sheltered inside. It still bears the characteristic hues of American walnut, dull, but in a way more beautiful than any engineered product could be. It is a woodland dream that we have the pleasure to walk on, its colours soothing before the red glows of the hearth.
The old wooden floor is more cinnamon where the varnish holds and paler in the regions that have had more wear. The eyes of the wood are as dark as the grooves between the planks, grooves that vary as much in thickness as the gaps between Elijah's new teeth. Even if the house was blown away in the wind, I would rebuild anew around this floor. If the kitchen is the heart our our home then this floor is the welcome mat for all who call themselves friends.
Once inside the old wooden floor was enough to tell Mac that this wasn't the place. As the last of his pear drop dissolved on his tongue he checked out the almost pristine layer of dust that dulled it's red hues to almost grey. He radioed for all officers to hold position and tracked the disturbed dust with his flashlight to a brand new car battery, the only clean thing in the room.
The elderly couple had never modernized their home, and were unaware of the woodworm lurking hungrily in the darkness, and the dry-rot assaulting the timbers unseen.
They were awakened one night by an almighty and splintering crash, and crept fearfully downstairs to the kitchen.The old wood floor, which was so riddled with boreholes, had finally surrendered to the weight, and as silverfish darted beneath spore-coated skirtings, the heavy, old fashioned cooker, had dropped ilike a stove, into the space between the crumbling joists.
She had grown with him, forged a love that could not be matched. Whether to say who had aged better, she would never tell. On a day where the heat had reached its peak and the afternoon had nothing left to offer, she would lay her cheek against his cool, dark surface, follow the grooves with a finger and count the nicks with each memory of how they came to be. When she awoke in a cold sweat, the darkness fresh inside and outside her mind, he would talk to her, speak words of encouragement in that high, teetering voice of his until she made it to other end of the hall and to her mother’s room. You’re almost there. You’re almost there. No one had ever grown closer to her than he, no one had ever come closer to feeling like home.
Beneath her feet the wooden floor felt soft, not as much as a carpet, but not right for oak planks. Saskia moved to the edge of the room, her jeans brushing against the mildewed wall. It was hard to make out the details of the room after the summer light outside, but after a while she could make out the features of the room. It was the same as it ever was, just abandoned, old, dusty. On the wall was her school photograph taken just a few weeks ago. On the table were Papa's reading glasses and her mother's knitting was greyed with layers of dust, not even a glimmer of red wool fighting through. Forgetting the floor she rushed forward, "Papa! Mama! Papa come out! Mama where are you? Mama!" Her only answer was the creaking of the door moving lazily in the breeze. She went to run up the stairs and her foot went right through the first one. She staggered backward, her mind swirling, her breaths shallow until she fell in a heap to the floor.
The floor of the old house swirled like driftwood on the beach with the same softness new wood never has. The varnish that trapped its moisture must have been gone two decades previously, maybe more, just tiny fragments remaining here and there. The surface is so pale as to feel like a ghostly echo of the lustrous wood it once was, freshly felled with the fragrance of the forest.