table - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The grain of the table flowed as if once it had had a pulse, as if a heart had taken in those sweet brown grains and then sent them on their way. My mother had another way of seeing it, she saw instead those organic radiating frontiers as if they were the leading edge of a wave upon the smoothest of sand. Either way, it's pretty, and when my brain gets to racing I sit myself here so it can become as slow as a forest heartbeat or as rhythmic as waves upon a beach.
The table had been with us all those years, the surface had the face of a beloved old man - as if all those lines were his well earned wrinkles. It was the sort of brown hue that welcomed the eye and invited the hand to touch.
The table rocked ever so softly upon the flag-stone floor, those pillars made of strong brown beams, beams that once held up the roof of the barn. One way or another they'd always been here on this land with us, and before that they were apart of the chattering forest trees.
The table was hardly ever seen in our house, so often it was a sea of our creative messes, merging and spilling in the way that they did. For so long it was four legs beneath that chaotic splendour. Then one day my father cleared it and I saw the surface for the first time in so long. The top had once been something else, something painted so many times before being sanded and varnished... and all those colours were still there in lines, in patches and in freckles within the grain. It was perhaps the most surreal rainbow I'd ever seen, but one made to last even when the sun comes out.
The only decoration is an odd-looking piece right next to the bed: an end table made out of a slab of unevenly cut marble and thin crisscrosses of black lacquer wood for the legs. My mother puts her handbag on the table and the cylindrical black vase on top starts to wobble.
It was a round table the size of a cartwheel made of rough wood. Around the circumference were rocks from every corner of the land set into the wood.
The table looked like a porcelain plate on three pencil thin stilts. The ends of the stilts curved up and curled like little gnome shoes. On top stood a terracotta pot with a geranium in full and vibrant red bloom.
The table was about five Isabelle's long and as wide as her arm span. The dark cherry wood was smooth and had the lustrous quality of well waxed wood.
Mack was a master craftsman, he could make a table like no-one else. Solid with engraved cabriole legs, inlaid wood of different shades and sanded to perfection. But when it came time to describe his table so he could sell it in a brochure or on a website he threw his hands in the air and stalked off in a huff. So it was up to George to sell the tables, he was useless with a chisel or a saw, but he was silver tongued and his descriptions did justice to the fine pieces of sculptured art that the tables were. Together they had a viable business, each taking care of their own end of things. Mack stuck to the carpentry and George to the sales and marketing.
They stood around what was left of a conference table, snapped in half by a block of concrete.
the smooth white surface of the table below.
the monstrous marble table.
It was a low table, the square-ish top was formed entirely of driftwood and the supports were encrusted with beach pebbles of assorted colors with a few pieces of washed up smoothed glass mixed in.
Beloved kitchen table, battered pine, the dents from knives and forks, pens and pencils. The legs chewed by the dog when his was a puppy. A table for family meals, celebrations, homework, chatting. How much of life happens around this unassuming piece of furniture?