teapot - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The teapot was rough with a fiery glaze, blazing orange peeking through the brilliant red that dominated the outside. In the winter it reminded Gabe of the holly berries and the hearth, by summer it brought to mind the vibrant blooms of the park.
Susan could never repress the shudder the wracked her lithe body whenever she entered her grandmother's kitchen. For you see, everywhere she looked, there were teapots. Tall teapots, short teapots, fat teapots, thin teapots. Teapots shaped like dogs or cats, birds, horses, pigs, bears even people. Although some were less iridescent than others, there wasn't a single teapot that didn't have a garish streak of colour to it. In particular was the clown teapot sitting alone in the corner of the counter. It had big, swollen lips that stretched unnaturally across its bloodless face. Lips that failed to cover protruding teeth. It's nose perched precariously in the middle but despite its unrealistic size, it still failed to cover up the round bulging blue eyes that seemed to leer at her from wherever she stood. To say she hated that teapot was an understatement.
Max's eyes kept darting to the teapot, a dull little thing of chipped white china. It made no sense, he didn't drink tea as far as Camille was aware. And so she waited, reading her book, watching from the corners of her eyes until he left. As his form passed through the doorway it was there again, the little glance at the teapot. Camille sauntered over as if to fetch an apple, yet all she really wanted to do was to look inside...
On the doily was a teapot for one, the glaze brown like rich soil. The handle ballooned outward almost as round as the pot itself, making it easy for the elderly patrons to take hold of and pour. They came in the afternoons, enjoying their little luxury and the routine it gave.
The teapot was squat, as if it had been smooshed downward before it had made it into the kiln. It reminded Tammy of a toad with its pouch full of air, ready to call into the night. She giggled, perhaps the dull green glaze had something to do with that. She let her fingers run over the surface, feeling the smoothness, yet also the edges of a few drips that had been baked hard, forever frozen in place.
Ian was expecting a mug of orange pekoe, but instead Fiona bustled in carrying a laden tray so much wider than her tiny physique. His first instinct was to leap up, to help, to take the heavy teapot and milk jug that clinked while they banged. He made himself sit. She was capable, she had this, all he'd do is make her feel inadequate while she brought out this grand gesture. She set it down. The teapot looked straight out of some art gallery, soft pea green and shaped to perfection - smooth, elegant. She caught his gaze and a smile spread over her elfin features, "I made it, I do pottery."
The roughly shaped teapot looked somewhat more like a large yam with a spout and an earthworm stuck to the sides for a handle. The sage green glaze was thick and had dripped around the base, yet Sam looked at me with such a fierce pride in his eyes, daring me not to find it as wonderful as he did. What could I say? I said it had the character that every other teapot I'd ever seen had lacked. I said it had an earthy quality that added substantially to the experience of drinking the tea, like a connection with nature. Maybe that was too much. At first Sam looked a little skeptical as he analyzed my facial features for telltale signs of insincerity. Then he broke into a broad grin, nodding, basking in his achievement.
I had been expecting a tea bag stewed in a mug, but instead she brought out an old white teapot with gold gilding around the lid and spout. The rose decoration on the side was somewhat worn and reminded me of something my grandmother might use at the WI she loved to visit. There was a story here, but now wasn't the time for it.
Nothing in Aunt Wanda's place was the colour it ought to be, from her brown stained teeth to her brown stained teapot; it was years of dirt and all engrained. The carpet was grey, only lifting a table leg would reveal a beige spot. Aunt grinned, red lipstick stretched so thin. She reached forward to pour the tea, the lid jiggling in time with the fat of her arms, clinking as she tilted it. With her eyes trained on the spout to judge the flow her breathing altered, low and steady as if she were a painter putting the final daubs on a masterpiece.