a boy - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
He was the chestnut and the acorn, the seed of everything good to come, our brown haired boy. We could see the mighty goodness within him that branched out into all that he did at play. He was nature's child and our honour to raise.
The boy had eyes of pure mischief and a heart of gold; he had that way of moving that honest people do, with the spark of the child and a smile that went all the way through to his core.
There was something about Terry that drew people to him. I guess it didn't hurt that he was a good looking boy; but it was more than that. He was quiet, but not out of painful shyness. It was a reservedness, like a conscious choice to observe the lie of the land before he got involved. Yet he wasn't stand-offish, her remained friendly faced and welcoming in body posture. It wasn't like he sat down one day and planned to be like that, it's just the way he was. I never saw him go out and deliberately make a friend, they just came to him. There was nothing threatening about him, nothing at all. He was an easy listener, a good audience, giving encouraging feedback laced with intelligent comments. He worked hard, he got his work done. Only once in a while would he sink into a sulk over getting some school work wrong, it didn't happen to him often, and he had poor tolerance for the feeling when it did.
The boy is more fragile than the glass ballerina that sits on my dresser at home. I think if I were spin him too hard in country-dancing class his limbs might just snap. It's hard to get his attention under than mop of brown hair that dominates his narrow face, there are eyes in there somewhere. He had skin the same colour as my Dad, that brown colour without the effort of trying to get a tan, not white like me and Mom. He holds himself like he's trying to take up even less space than he already does and his clothes look at least a size too small, only exaggerating his skinniness. He looks so lost. I want to know his name so I dig in my lunch for the cookie I snuck from the cupboard this morning. I was going to share it with Amy but this new kid looks like it's just what he needs...
From out of the bushes tumbled an octopus of wiry limbs in crazy motion. Almost before Lila could startle the boy was on his feet and locking eyes with her like she was waving a gun. After that frozen moment when neither one of them breathed he turned on his heels and sprinted down the sidewalk, not even pausing at the boundary of the woods. One moment he was cast in the orange-yellow glow of the aging street-lamps and then he was swallowed by the darkness Lila's eyes could not penetrate. He was one of the outcast children, he must be. Didn't they all look like that? No surgical enhancements and no tattoos of belonging? His skin looked tanned under the dirt from too much time under the sun. She adjusted her dress though it hung perfectly already and made a mental note to surrender her iris cam images to security when she got to the Knowledge Centre.
His medium weight jacket was no match for the January wind outside the commuter bus. It was nine fifteen at night. What's this eight year old kid doing on the bus this time of night? He sat next to a middle aged woman. There was a slight separation between the woman and the kid. He kept looking up at her, but she kept eyes on her laptop. They were not together. I spoke across the aisle, "Hey, kid. Where are you headed?"
"I'm going to my aunt's house. She lives on Jackson Ave."
The lady looked down and smiled. She asked, "What's your name? Why are you alone this time of night?" The boy looked away, then back at her.
"My parents are gone, so I live between my three aunts. When one gets tired of me, she sends me to the next one on the bus." I felt a heavy sadness and a surge of anger at the aunts. The boy added, "When I ride the bus, I like to sit next to a lady like you - and.."
The lady smiled, "And, what?" "
I sort of pretend like, she is my...well...my mom."
On a plastic hallway chair sat a child, legs kicking in the air, clearing the floor by several inches as they swung back and forth. James was mesmerized by the red rubber boots on his feet and blue duffle coat, somehow the kid reminded him of Paddington Bear. His face had unhealthy look to it and his eyes were hard open as he stared at nothing on the wall. James stopped. The boy's legs weren't swinging in the care-free way he'd first assumed. Each one was more like a kick, sharp and pointed. He crouched down in front of him, letting the boy see his white coat and stethoscope and brushed his blonde bangs from his face.
"Hey there, I'm Doctor James. What's your name?" The boy became still and was quiet for a moment, sitting further back into the chair.
"Ben," came out almost like an accident, spilling out of his drawn inward lips. His brown eyes lost their harshness, becoming rounder, more glossy. Then all at once his face buckled, his breathing stopped momentarily and tears streamed..
The room should be empty but it's not. A boy sits in the corner, he could be a beefier reflection of my older brother but he's not Jack. He stares at me with eyes that tell me he wasn't expecting my company either. His lips almost move then his eyes dart back to the frayed laces of his runners. I want to know what he was going to say but it's just not a good idea. We are never alone, not really. From behind me comes that scent of jasmine the director wears and I turn to meet her eyes directly. It's odd to be at her level, just six months ago she was obviously taller. I want to ask her why she gets make-up and perfume and I don't but I already know what the answer would be. I get my black uniform like all the others and a pack of hair bands at Christmas from "Santa." In her hand isn't the usual dossier but two. A joint mission. Hell. I don't even know this kid. How don't I know him anyway? It's not like the academy is a big place...
The kid starts to cry but I can't just rush in there. Better traps than this haven't gotten me yet because I'm cautious. I walk steadily toward the cold subway car and direct my beam inside. He's quite alone other than a small stockpile of candy bars and juice boxes. Wrappers carpet the floor like fall leaves and the smell of sewage is now more apparent. With wide brown eyes the child says "Mommy," and rushes forwards, wrapping his scrawny arms about my knees. Perfect ambush time, but none comes. I wait a full five minutes before sheathing my weapon and crouch down to get a look at this waif. He's beautiful, under those dried tear tracks is smooth black skin. His hair has become matted and his nails are overgrown. His clothing is dirty but high-end.
"Where's mommy?" I ask, hoping she's coming back, because to be honest I'm not the mothering kind. He points to a mound under the wrappers. I draw the knife and step forwards but she's been dead at least a week. Damn it.
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by .
The boy at the table is whiter than milk with hair that matches the tangerine sitting on his desk. When he looks my way it's with a grin that tells me he's gonna be a fun kid to know. It's that sort of half smile that ticks up on one side. He looks away again, pale blue eyes to the desk, but not in shyness. With that withdrawn gaze I have been dismissed. He doesn't care if I'm his new friends or not, or perhaps that's just what he wants me to think. I take a step closer to the empty seat at his side but in seconds a kid cuts in front of me and sits down. Instantly they're knee deep in conversation, thick as thieves. I cast around for another spot, just one, right at the front on an empty desk with nothing but the graffiti to keep me company.
The boy looks at me with his head askew on his grubby neck. His eyes are taking me in without moving and I know behind those hazel iris's there are calculations going on. It's odd to be regarded this way by a child half my height, but these kids in the backcountry are more grown up than most of our teens- aged not by years but by the mileage of life experience. Beneath the coating of the ever-present red dust are freckles. Cleaned up nicely this kid would be every mother's pride back home. He's muscular from work rather than overpriced group sports and highly intelligent I don't doubt.
He could do any number of things: run, attack, or try to con me for money. But he does none of those things. Instead he rolls up his sleeve to reveal a fresh wound, and when my eyes fall to his hand I can see the blood is dripping right off his fingers, garish against his skin. I didn't find him after all, he's found me. I take the pack off my my back and pull out my overstocked first aid kit...
I was interrupted by the creaking of the heavy wooden doors. It opened slowly, revealing a guy who showed no expression on his face in greeting us. Leaning against the door, he had a raspberry-flavoured Popsicle sticking out from his mouth. He looked absolutely lean and tall on his semi-formal attire, pressed black trousers hung lowly around his waist and white sleeves rolled up just above his elbow, leaving the top most of his shirt unbuttoned. His light hair was tousled, fairly tossed backward and uneven strands sticking against his sweaty forehead
The boy had a stunned look about him, like not long ago he was blending with the peers he towered over. On gangly, thin limbs he had the stoop of one not accustomed to such altitude. Though his height was man-like, I couldn't mistake that face for anything but a boy. I'd put money on it that he isn't even a teen yet. His face was lacking any hint of acne and his movements that gave him away; they were too unrestrained. He wasn't encumbered by trying to impress potential love interests, he was boyish from his too shiny shoes to his mother-trimmed hair. Perhaps another year would have him in worn out sneakers and a boy-band hair style.
There was one man who I couldn’t keep my eyes off, power was radiating from his huge muscular body. He only had a black scarf made out of snake skin hanging loosely around his neck; it looked like a snake was coiled up against his neck if you weren’t looking closely. His chest was bare, showing off the battle scars he had on his naked torso. He was sitting on a cream couch, setting down a glass of cognac on the table before him as he reached out for the lighter. He had a cigarette between his blood red lips.
His wild dark hair looked like someone was running their fingers through it all night long and he reeked of woman’s perfume, different kinds, and alcohol. “Come.” His warm eyes dancing.
The boy lies in the sand like he's sleeping. I've watched him do this over and over. When his little sister comes to rouse him he acts no more alive than a sack of beans. He waits, cobra-like, until she gets right up close to his face. Then he jumps up, scattering the yellow grains with arms that fling wide, hands like starfish in the summer sun. Then he roars without shame, not the timid little expulsion of an adult playing “lets pretend,” but the no-holes-barred lung-emptying of a prehistoric warrior. Then he stands there, his tousled blonde hair masking the sand that must cover it. It falls back down into his eyes and all I can see is a white gap-toothed grin. His sister screams every time, not upset but elated; she jumps, claps and giggles. Then, as if he were shot with a dart gun, he's down again, floppy on the sun-warmed gold.
How questionably odd it was to see the black-haired boy under the same tree again, if she was not mistaken, he had been like that for several days. His hair was tousled, cut neatly on the sides of his head. He was wearing poorly-fitted jeans that were not exact to his measurements and a loose tattered shirt. Sleeves rolled up in a fashionable way, he had a scar engraved on his upper arm that reached down below the nape of his neck, or was it ink? She could not see especially when she was from an undistinguishable angle.
A raven-haired boy sat beside me. He was beautiful, that's all I could say because this boy rendered me speechless at all times. He always preferred to be alone, never friendly, only have a few friends and he would ignore every girl who would try to flirt with him-that's what I liked him best. But I was pretty sure, I was the one who opened that cold heart of his which is why he was different now than before. He would talk and smile at me and when he did, the dimples on the corner of his mouth deepens. That smile eventually would light up his entire face, literally, since he has an adoring face of an angel's. I am so in love with those eyes no matter how dark and burdened they are, I can't seem to figure it all out. I want to know him more, to know what secret lies in him, but the closer we get, the more confused my heart becomes. We became friends, inseparable, but nothing more than that.
Because the raven-haired found someone who was more special than me and that broke my heart.
A boy spoke softly and opened his arms wide, embracing the wind that tossed his locks of raven hair backwards. Blue Caster, whom everyone called Caster or whichever of the two names they preferred, had a face beyond admirable, so pure-looking and gentle that it was obvious that this boy would grow into a handsome man. Yet his eyes spoke differently, they told a far-fetched story of horror and pain.