Roads - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The road that was black in the day time just melted into the darkness of the night. When a car passed it's headlights were reflected in the water that lay over the surface. There were street-lamps years ago but they had all been sabotaged for their solar triggers, it's how the gangs arm their weaponry. They rig things up with dirt over the sensor and then after some rain whatever they have rigged up explodes. So our roads are dark and our days are anxious, who knows where they will strike next.
The road was straight. The makers had not veered right or left for any dwelling or to save the splitting of land. They were conquerors and they cut their tract without seeking permission from any person of any rank. They did not seek to appease the peasants but to assert their dominance. They had an army or road builders formed largely of captives and an army of soldiers. Such an army required food and they simply took it from any farm they came across. When they were done it was a route from the port to the capital city where they had already seized the instruments of power and muted the resistance by their favoured method.
The road lay before them like a tarmac ribbon; albeit, one that had been worn over time. A white line ran down the center, relatively unbroken compared to the scarred and potholed concrete.
The carbon-counter gun beeped. '2017 A.D/4503 K.Z'. An archeologist wiped the dust from the display with his seventh tentacle. Looking out with octagon eyes at the thick jungle of kudzu and Himalayan blackberry surrounding and obstructing the ancient highway, he chittered in a happy sort of way. Finally; the path to the City of Angels. And perhaps, some clues to what had wiped out the previous civilization.
The road was a black velvet ribbon draped over the twilight hills.
The roads in the city had been built in the days of wealth and grandeur. They were wide enough for several lanes of cars in each direction. They must have been flat and glossy black back then with neat lines of white and yellow like in the old movies. Now they are just grey, cracked, pot-holed. There is no paint left, but then there are no cars either. These days they are crammed with the street vendors, the drug pushers and the customers who haggle over every last dime.
The road was as straight as dried spaghetti.It took seconds for the eye to travel it's length across the prairie until it melted into the blue grey horizon in the far distance, but they knew it would not carry them there like a friend, it would beat on their feet with every step and lie there in it's silent monotony refusing to engage their minds.
The road was an endless river of tarmac baked under a brutal, relentless sun. It stretched into the horizon in front and behind as far as the eye can see. The once black tarmac was now grayed with desert dust. No signs, no way of knowing where you are.
My mother would describe our road as a ski ramp in winter, for when the snow fell on the hill and became compacted by peoples futile attempts to escape, that is what it looked like.
The road was Roman. Once it had been a marvel of the engineering of the age, now it was simply a long path of stones with grass and weeds growing between them. It was the width of a chariot and no more, Edith wondered what they would make of our roads now; endless rivers of asphalt wide enough for several of our polluting horseless carriages. She pondered how bumpy it must have been to pass over it in a a suspension-less box on wheels. A horse would have been more comfortable.
back alley, grimy, garbage dumpster, parked cars, smell of petrol, smell of exhaust fumes, speed bumps, storm drains, litter, newspaper blown in the wind, hopscotch drawn in chalk.
Motorways, highways, tarmac, asphalt,
Busy, quiet, traffic jams, skid marks, flower wreaths and memorials, traffic lights, road work signs, lights out of action, four way stop.
over a stone built bridge, over an viaduct, through a tunnel of tiles and bright lights overhead, a half moon of light at the mouth of the tunnel and one behind, road to freedom, journey of the soul, thunder of tires.
glistening with recent rain, treacherous with black ice, gritty with salt, snow clogged, mounds of dirty grey rutted slush, covered in a perfect blanket of white, picturesque, cars skidding as if they were on an ice rink, laden with snow.
Desolate country road, pot holes, dirt track, lined with hedges, tree lined, loose gravel, narrow, open road, like a black ribbon over the highlands, disappearing into the horizon where earth meets big sky, endless river of black, baked in the August sun, draped over the mountains like orange peel, sheer drop to one side.