Town - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The town was a maze of narrow winding streets, as complex as the heart. The streets were the veins, paved with dark red stones, and the people were the blood. The sound of the smiths, beating swords and breastplates into shape, was the consistent and dull pounding that let you know the town was alive.
This town is the dirt under my nails and the haze of grey over my skin. I know the crooked roads better than the tired facts we learnt in school, though perhaps not more vivid than the recess hard-knocks. When evening rolls around and the light fails to reach the grey beneath my feet, the street-lamps are aglow. There are days I imagine the struggling lights to be an airport landing strip, almost lost in a November fog, just like the day Papa returned from the war. Always I stand with mind adrift until something bursts the memory - a scuttle of litter or a passing car sending a frigid puddle in a sky-bound arc. Then all at once it is just the old town again, the bricks and mortar locked in a constant battle against man and nature.
The colours of the next town reminded me of children's toys. Every red was the exact same one, a brilliant cherry scarlet. Every blue was a bright royal hue, neither dark or light. There were no trees, perhaps the foliage would not cooperate to be the same shade on every leaf. The street-lamps were the same canary yellow as the rain-slickers and the taxis. There was no pink, no grey, no orange or violet; but it was more than that. Nothing was sun-bleached, nothing scratched or chipped. The street was free of litter, the walls were unvandalized perfection...
The town was what a village becomes with no city planning and a great enthusiasm for architecture. Every building was different, borrowing this and that from another era. It made the place as glorious as a beloved grandmother's quilt, ever patch unique and as eye catching as the one before.
After weaving through the labyrinth of roads, the paths eventually converged and unveiled the piazza. Flocks of pigeons gathered everywhere; their numbers delighted foreigners as they huddled around the birds, and either fed them crumbs of bread, or took photographs. The visitors’ inclination towards the pigeons differed from the locals’; the birds were considered nuisances, and treated as such. A sea of people, of all ages and ethnicities, filled the square. Most were sightseers from all corners of the world; after all, Varenna was a renowned tourist attraction, and was often visited at this time of the year.
Large university town, bustling streets, buses crammed into narrow streets, buildings three and four stories high, bicycles chained up in rows, buskers with open guitar cases for spare change, large open air market place with stall holders hollering out prices, narrow cobbled side streets, coffee shops, antique shops, florists with bouquets out on the street in buckets.
Streets jammed with cars, traffic at a crawl, town parking lot full, Saturday afternoon shoppers, hustle, bustle, market day, streets lined with stalls selling organic produce, fresh meat, local cheeses, baked goods, large iced cinnamon buns, home-made trinkets, pot plants and herbs, stall holders with chalk boards, deal of the day, calling out prices, special offers, rows of shops, flats above, harassed mothers with strollers and toddlers.
The town of Positano was built on a steep hillside with shops and restaurants, houses and apartments all piled up on top of each other with a series of interlocking alleyways and a single narrow street zigzagging all the way down to the horseshoe bay below. There were lights everywhere. The holiday season was drawing to a close, but the place was still crowded with people determined to enjoy what the summer had to offer right to the end.
It took him twenty minutes to reach Puerto Madre, a fishing village that had grown into a dense and cluttered town. The buildings were an amazing jumble of different styles: rickety wooden shops, marble and brick houses, huge stone churches. Everything had been beaten down and baked by the sun - and sunlight was everywhere: in the dust, in the vivid colors, in the smells of spices and overripe fruit.