Pier - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The pier is a thousand hues and shades we call brown, somehow the labelling of the colour subtracting from its beauty. I prefer to see all the subtle hues that open my eyes and warm my heart, that speak to me of breathing woodlands and the music of wind in their bright umbrella canopies. The pier is that will to walk over the water, to approach that horizon, the blues that are real jazz to my soul. I love that place, to sit and simply be in the moment, me, the briny breeze, the birds and the horizon.
The roller coaster was impressive for such a pier in a British ex-seaside vacation town. It was the kind of place that would have been hopping with ice-cream buying families only a generation previously, before the advent of cheap flights to Majorca and Ibiza. In the cool mist of fall it was silent once more, it's brief moment of summer activity for the local children over. It's track went up steeply to a high point and then dropped precipitously into a hair-raising dive, the speed from which took the sparsely loaded cars around two full loops before coming to a halt. There was talk of it coming down this winter, that the summer trade no longer covered it's maintenance. Without it the maze of mirrors and the ghost train would likely follow soon; perhaps replaced by more arcade games.
The pier was forlorn in the cold waves. Under the grey sky the water was dark without the speckles of light that come with a sunny day and the wood that jutted out from the beach was closer to black than brown.
Gina took her nephew's hand and walked down the pier as if it were a personal catwalk. While he strained to see the purple starfish that clad the supporting posts so thickly that in places no wood could be seen, she kept her eyes serenely on the horizon. Her shoes clacked over the various hues of the wooden boards, some newer planks with their bright unworn look, others dull and beaten by countless freeze-thaw cycles and the salty air. Such an exposed place, nothing to hide behind. But no-one was looking for her now. They were too busy jumping at their own shadows. She didn't care for the seals that bathed in the harbour or pay attention to the birds. She savoured only the wind in her black hair and the joy of seeing a morning that Mac could not.
Every summer we'd lay out a hopscotch grid on the aging planks of the pier. Lorna would draw it in fancy sidewalk chalks, a different colour for every number. There was something so magical about hearing our hops echo down to the waves below to the curious fish. Our vibrations must have travelled down those starfish encrusted legs into the very sea bed. Mama used to shake her head, a twinkle in her eye, "Now, now, you're gonna make those crabs crabby." Then she'd walk away slowly as if she'd just made the finest joke in the world.
The pier was home to a permanent fun fair; bumper cars, the hall of mirrors, the ghost train, a loop-the-loop roller coaster and the big wheel. Waves playfully splashing below, gentle salty breeze, cafe, chips, doughnuts and candy floss. Late summer sun, sun speckled sea, gulls swooping for dropped chips. Lines of children snake away from each ride, eager eyes, impatient feet, ready smiles. A discordant medley of summer sounds, the train track thud-thud of stroller wheels over the wooden planks, the cheery plodding melodies played out of crackly old speakers from each ride, squeals and screams. the repetitive tinny music of arcade games call out from the sheltered array of glowing, flashing machines. The smell of frying doughnuts permeates the sea air.
Lonely, rotting, deserted, waiting for demolition, peeling paint on old signs from long disused cafes and boutiques. Ghosts of yesteryear strut on the soft planks in their sunday finest. Casting a solitary silhouette in the twilight. Jutting out into an unforgiving sea, monstrous black waves rear up, lashing out with white foam claws.
Pier strutting across the mud flats on barnacle and muscle encrusted stilts, tide out, warm salty breeze. People sit on benches, gaze out to see, out to the horizon. Children run up and down, some ride bicycles with little stabilizing wheels on each side. Various shapes and sizes of dog trot along on leashes. Wooden rails spattered with bird droppings, crows hop around hoping for tid-bits. Children stand on the lowest rail and lean over the edge. Metal ramps lead down to floating wooden walkways that rise and fall with the tide, perfect for launching a kayak from. Purple starfish lying like a living carpet on the bottom of the thick support beams. Sea gulls mill around the wooden stilts leaving temporary impressions of their webbed feet in the sandy mud flats.
Under the gentle sun of early May the sea is an unbroken calm, speckled by a million fragments of light - each one so tiny but together are intense in a way that is utterly beautiful. Iris lies on her belly, feeling the rough wood of the jetty under her light cotton clothing and dangles a hand into the ocean. The water is soothing, cool. She splashes for a moment and then squeals with surprise. Where moments ago there was just briny water is now a shiny grey head observing her with such intelligent eyes she begins to talk to it. The dolphin starts to nod her head as if she understood every word and looks so much like she's returning the smile that Iris bursts out laughing. Though the day is hot Iris feels more warmed by this mammal of the sea than the brilliant rays above. It is perfection - sweet gentle perfection...