shadow - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
All shadows may do is mute colours, soften the volume of the daytime orchestra. Shadows are a guest, dependant upon the shining sun, a passing memento to become nothing at all under the starlit night. So though shadows come as if part of a natural clock, in truth they tell more of golden rays than darkness.
There are times shadows are so welcome, a chance to dwell in diffuse rays, to rest. There are times that kiss of cold air is a salve, for it beckons me to sit, to revive what needs quiet solitude. In those sweet puddles of calmness, in the colours of a sunset lullaby, I let everything that I am connect with the surface of the Earth below. I let my eyes see how close the sun is, how, even if I only rest here, it will come to me with all strength and brilliance.
As the morning progresses my shadow zips up into my body until it is less than puddle beneath my feet; but as I get closer to seeing the stars once more it unfurls, stretching into the night.
We crouch by the graffiti of the old ice-cream parlour wall waiting for the shadows of the old buildings and lampposts to melt into blackness. Once we can no longer tell their shape from the darkness of the cracking sidewalk we feel safe to move and get on with the business of survival. We have product to move, matches, soap, toilet paper, pain-killers. These things are in higher demand than crack. We take our payment in food and clothing, we are hard negotiators. We have to be. Cave in to the pleading eyes of a desperate mother and maybe we fail to get our next haul of goods from the mob, then what? We starve? The shadows tell us when our time is up, when it's time to retreat back to the shell of the parlour that is our territory. Even a ghostly outline of deeper grey in the monochromatic world of out nocturnal lives is enough to halt even a favourable negotiation. In a society with no overreaching rules the rules of your clan are absolute. You're in or you're out.
Our shadows are sharply defined puddles at our feet and the sun is cooking our heads. Already this adventure has an unsettling feeling. I wonder how many of the people around me will make it back to the parlour. Any light enough to cast a shadow has meant almost certain death for so long that we feel like we are walking in inky pools of our own blood. But the signal that came from the harbour is undeniably Leonard, and if we don't get this cargo now it will be our last. Moving it in daylight is the worst idea in the world, but no-one refuses a signal from their mob contact. So we move, lithe and fearful, our usual bravado evaporating as fast as the moisture from our lungs.
It trails me, hushed as the night, dancing between the trees as the sunlight flickers. It melts into darkness with the arrival of dusk, until it blends and disappears against the backdrop of nothingness. But it remains, only neglected. Like the stars during the day – overpowered by the pouring rays of sunlight – but yet still there. As night whisks away it joins me once more, hailing like an old friend. It mirrors my actions, as though looking up to me, surveying and admiring my every move. An immaculate outline of my shape, an echo of my movements, a lifetime companion, it shadows me; a shadow of a friend.
The shadows lengthened with the afternoon and eventually melted into the darkness of the approaching twilight.
A dark figure crawls, ominously advancing as I walked hesitantly down the abandoned alley, impersonating my every faint movement. A flicker of the street lamp and i momentarily lose him but to my horror, he rises out of the murky depths of a mud puddle again, breathing life into the cold cobblestone. The grim outline of a shadowy reflection had possessed me.
The stub of a candle, barely two inches long, lit at first attempt. The shadows of the switchboard cupboard bobbed against the wall at first approach. It looked different. The little wooden handle on it's door was longer, more ornate, and set at a new angle. I was two feet away when the ornamentation resolved itself into the form of a scorpion, fat and yellow, it's pincers curved about the axis of the diagonal and it's chunky segmented tail just obscuring the handle beneath.
From the shadows comes a form. I know it's Mark from the looping strides that almost look like a moon-walk. Somehow I think the gravity has been turned down only around him. I try to keep my smile on the inside only, he really wouldn't like his gait to be a source of amusement. For all his casualness he's paper thin underneath. He'd never lash out, only make a self-deprecating joke, but I see the hurt in his eyes the other's don't. It's a good thing too, a bleeding heart gets you nowhere in this town and I kinda like having him around.
As she walked she suddenly became aware of the gloomy shadows that were following her, haunting her.
My eyes were glued to the figure a few meters ahead, their shadow falling as if it meant to hide. They moved toward the house, but paused. My heartbeat quickened. I stopped, looking for an escape route; “I have to risk it,” I thought.