a boy - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
A boy sits nearby as if his bones were built of laughter and his eyes fashioned from the electric heavens.
The boy has a lost look about him, as if he was recently awoken from a nap. Looking more closely I see that his older brother holds his hand that he has extended backwards. This is how brothers love, subtle in their protective ways. They must have a good role model to feel so comfortable showing their love for one another so well.
The boy is infinite fun packaged into a tiny human. I see it dance in his eyes, that sense of mischeif that needs release. So we plan our mirth, putting our creative selves to the task at hand. We are the creators of fun. That's what little boys are all about.
A well loved boy is a joy forever, and you can take that to heart. They aren't fodder for the money-nexus world so let them love, not encourage emotional indifference. Girls and boys both need a bit of toughness, the ability to be angry when their treatment isn't right, but they both need empathy too, both need limitless love and protective arms. Let nature to the rest, let them see good male role models who protect from a sense of love, who stand by their family and do the right thing. "Let boys be boys" should be a good phrase, one that acknowledges that they are born for love as much as girls are.
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.
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 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.
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.