a man - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Some folks wear a smile, this guy was the smile. Everything about him was a soft and understated joy as he greeted each person. I went to there for the coffee, but I got so much more. Me and all those other people were the patients in his surgery as he asked us about our day, our lives and welcomed the emotions that tiptoed out. I wondered how many went on to be better friends, better bosses, better parents for his care, a spreading out of goodness from just one man. That barista, he was the safest person around and I never thanked him for all that he gave.
I'm not sure Mark ever said, "Yes," to anything, it was always a "maybe" with a cheeky grin. Yet he always came through... it was always a warm possibility, something loving, inviting. He was the kind of guy that wouldn't take an order but never needed to; whatever he was supposed to do, he did it. He told bad jokes and danced with moves humanity hasn't had the pleasure of seeing for some time - and in my embarrassment I'd never loved him more. He was the kind of guy to ask me to guess which hand the ring was in, hiding his nerves behind an angel's bluff.
I have never seen Chester ruffled, and today is no exception. His voice has a husky drawl and every step he takes is in slow motion compared to almost anyone else I know. His idea of hurrying is to bend his head downward a little as he saunters, the pace of his footfalls not changing one iota. That's just the way the man is, born calm, can't change him, wouldn't want to.
A man walked towards the pond. It was as silent as any normal morning and the sun was barely higher than the trees. Yet, he was up. His big boots made a rhythmical noise against the causeway, solid and regular like a soldier. His face was stern, yet peaceful as he swung the gun from his shoulder. Smooth metal glimmered. Callused fingers wiped its surface, feeling the cold. He stood at the shore, no wind, no waves. His muscular upper-body stretched backwards and then suddenly sprung forward. The gun flew, spinning in the morning rays, before splashing into the water and sinking; finally vanishing from sight. The waves broke the eerie mood and another man looked back at him from the water. His face was filthy but there was a relief in his eyes. He had made it.
Bragi was as gray-haired and shaggy-faced as an unshorn sheep, but if he was as meek, you would not know from the cords of muscle knotting his neck and straining the shoulder seams of his shirt, tenuously buttoned across a bulging chest. He sat in a bulky wooden chair with wide armrests and a canvas-sling seat. He wore loose linen trousers over emaciated legs and bare white feet resting on a cushioned stool. He was two halves, one alive and powerful, one dead and a burden to him.
When your world explodes from the inside Ryan's the man you want next to you. He feels the shockwave and stays on his feet. Whatever he had to do disappears and as he refocuses on what needs to be done. He'll cover every angle and stay right there until you can breathe, walk and talk at the same time. Then he stands back and lets you get back on with your life, never mentioning your crisis again and not wanting to discuss it further. Once the storm has passed his tolerance for backward steps is al but non-existent. His shoulder is only for crying on when you can't stand alone, after that he expects you build inner strength, resilience. Ryan is the guy that works hard, brings home the money and never takes his stress out on others. But don't expect flowers on valentines, gifts at Christmas or impulsive vacation purchases; commercialism leaves him cold. His relationship “currency” is hugs, careful words and thoughtful deeds. He'll see you as an equal, but he'll expect you to act as one.
The man that walked into the courtyard looked liked an aged version of myself. At first his eyes were cast to the dusty earthen floor and then he seemed to suddenly realize he was at his destination, at our rendezvous. He lifted his head. His face had the same structure as my own, high cheekbones and symmetrical. He had the same deep brown eyes and tanned skin. He was still slender despite his years, toned and not at all stooped. Good news for me there I guess. Around his eyes were laughter lines in just the right amount. I supposed that he was often happy, but at that moment he was deadly serious. In his hand he clasped a large envelope and my heart skipped a beat. Photographs perhaps, possibly of mother and my babyhood. I raised a hand to wave and he spied me in an instant, sitting by the water fountain as I was. His face split into the grin I had imagined him to wear often. Then he came over in fast easy strides and took my offered hand in his two, shaking and squeezing...
His cowboyish gait was at odds with the Savile Row suit. There was a casualness to it that wasn't quite right in cloth so crisp. All that was missing was the gun and ten gallon hat. When he opened his mouth it was with a New York accent and the hand he offered to shake was manicured to perfection, the skin softer than a baby. His face was one of upmost confidence, whatever game this man played he wasn't accustomed to loosing. He smiled like a long lost brother and shook Ryan's hand warmly with the perfect squeeze and eye contact. Ryan reciprocated, but never would he trust a man so perfect, as far as he was concerned the more perfect the image the greater the danger underneath. Everyone has flaws and quirks, if they had been polished right out then trust wasn't even an option.
Greg shut the television off. He had no way to tell if the media reports were even true, or perhaps true in part but so bias in their presentation or omissions that he was being lead by the nose to think whatever someone else wanted him to think. All he knew was that Jesus had told him to love his neighbours, to turn the other cheek. When he thought with his higher brain he could go that. He could pour out love to everyone and anyone. But once the fear took hold of the primitive part of his brain it was the boss, locking him down into survival mode: "them or us," "kill or be killed." They weren't just robbing him of his better self, they stole his ability to live his life for the Lord, to let God flow through his thoughts and deeds.
The man is somewhat too tall for his build; were he a few inches shorter he would be all the more handsome for it. It was as if he stopped growing only to be stretched on one of those medieval racks a half-foot more. His face was mostly obscured by a red scraggly beard that clung to his skin like winter ravaged ivy tendrils. He meets my gaze not with the shyness of his father but with a blunt refusal to avert his gaze first. How odd to see those half-familiar features devoid of warmth, like they were stolen.
The man looks like he's been playing soccer for his entire half-century, or at least since he mastered walking. Under that suit is a lithe body that knows how to play and his face backs that up. Within his brown and mobile face are eyes that twinkle. In just moments his mouth gives up on the stoicism his colleagues project, breaking into a boyish grin. He's a guy I can imagine having a beer with, so when the next cashier comes free I let the person behind me go instead. I want the man with the smile.
The man isn't much bigger than the average fourteen year old, but there is no doubting his years. He's all muscle on that small frame. He has that biracial look, lighter skinned but with African features. His clothes are casual, but so impeccable they appear new. There's a coordination to his outfit that surprises me, but then I spy the bag over his shoulder- a camera, large and expensive. So he is a photographer. Interesting.
The man has the swagger of someone I don't even want to lock eyes with, let alone cross. His arms are more ink than skin and his blonde hair so closely cropped that from a distance I had mistaken him for being bald. When his trajectory is set for me I decide to busy myself tidying the garage tools, but as I make to take some out back he hails me in the kind of tone you don't ignore if you like breathing without a respirator. After so many years running this joint I can smile on cue, and I do. He extends his hand and in reply I show him the grease on mine and shrug apologetically. Beneath his pierced brows his eyes are as direct as I expected, not even blinking as much as the average person. Then from the shadows comes three more just like him, but not so pale. Before they open their mouths I smell a shake-down. After years of paying “protection money” to the dominant mob it looks like it's time to call them on it.
The man and his life seem to have departed on separate tracks sometime ago, but it's hard to tell who gave up on who first. He walks like his bones are only loosely connected, shoulders moving like potatoes in a sack with every heavy footfall. His clothes aren't badly fitting but the dirt is apparent even from a distance. His eyes never leave the sidewalk and as he passes there is a mumbling of bitter words spat more than spoken and the smell of whiskey. I try to imagine him as a baby, a toddler, a child, a teen. This life is just a day at a time, but somehow all of his days lead him to being human surplus: unregarded, unrequired, unvalued.
The man if anything is fitter looking than I expected. His face tells of a lean body beneath his wintry garb and his expression is serious but not unkind. He has that salt 'n' pepper look to his hair, against his still youthful skin it's better than catnip to me. He introduces himself formally, giving his business title and so do I. Though I'd have made the deal if he'd looked like a fermenting potato, it just makes things more pleasant that he is so inviting to look at, to flirt with.
Behind Delilah is a man who hasn't shaved in a while, yet it isn't really a beard. His lobster skin is dashed in dirty grey hairs that aren't either long enough or shaped enough to be an intentional beard. He has the look of man who once had muscles, broad over the back and thick in the neck. To me he's just another old man, albeit one with some extra poundage to carry around now that those once honed limbs are mostly fat. I shouldn't be staring like this but I feel safe to look while he is half turned away. The lumberjack shirt he wears is loose, odd, he doesn't look like he could possibly have lost weight and going by the junk he's eating it can't be a priority. I begin to avert my gaze to a handsome guy that just walked in when I see it; as he stretches to pick up a top row magazine the muzzle of a gun peeks below his shirt line. My eyes pop as he glances behind himself, catching the expression that I only wear for a fraction of a second...
The man that enters can't be more than thirty-five or so, but walks with a cane. His right leg has the fluidity of youth but the other is jagged like he can't control it. I've seen eighty year olds walk better than that. From his complexion I can't help but imagine him in Greece donning a fresh white shirt and sable shorts, but in this Canadian winter he's layered up for the minus figures outside. His eyes scan the coffee shop and I wave in recognition. He raises his eyebrows in what I hope is a signal of pleasant surprise and I scurry to remove my clutter from the seat next to me. He sits with heavy awkwardness. As I take in his cheekbones, full lips and caramel skin I just want to eat him up. There's something so sexy in that vulnerable look of his. His voice is warm and rich; my heart beats faster than it's design specs should allow. Then it's silent for a moment- he's waiting for a response but I wasn't focusing on his words. As I blush his look of bafflement becomes a shy smile...
His curls were midnight black and his eyes were dark brown, framed by graceful brows. He skin was tanned. He had prominent cheekbones and a well-defined chin and nose. Unlike Aiden, his was always obscured by his fuzzy, thin beard. Muscles rippled across every part of his body. He was obviously a seasoned warrior. She’d never seen a man with those features, but she knew, without a doubt, that he was Roman.
He has the most wonderful eyes – they are blue, mostly, but darken to grey in correspondence to his mood. He seldom smiles with his lips, but it is his eyes that shine instead, and it is this radiance that makes every man and woman who sees it feel the irresistible impulse to smile, too, for this smiling of the eyes is the most sincere and pure emotion that my husband would show, even if he didn’t want to show it. The eyes never lie – if I could say but four words to advise one on how to understand my husband’s thoughts, those would be the four I’d choose.
"It is done," replied the Persian, as he wiped his thick moustache--he was a magnificent man as tall and stalwart as an oak, with light flowing hair like a lion's mane.
Found in The Bride of the Nile, authored by .
Jim Bricknell himself was a tall big fellow of thirty-eight. He sat in a chair in front of the fire, some distance back, and stretched his long legs far in front of him. His chin too was sunk on his breast, his young forehead was bald, and raised in odd wrinkles, he had a silent half-grin on his face, a little tipsy, a little satyr-like. His small moustache was reddish.
I took a step forward so that I could get a closer look at this intruder. He looked both young and old at the same time. Dark brown eyes, filled with obvious pain and hidden trauma glistened in the tiny haze of light that radiated off the small flickering flame of the candle. His face was caked in soot, streaked with dirt and sand. He looked like a chimney sweep—a well fed chimney sweep. He had no hollow skin, no prominent bones in his shoulders or face, and a thickness to his skin—not the pale and sickly glow that colored the faces of most people I saw. His long coat was sewn with replacement dark thread and leather patches, and covered his wide set shoulders. Boots mimicked the style of his jacket: leather, heavy, and durable. A fine layer of dust coated his trimmed hair so that the brown strands appeared ashy grey.
The man had a beard you could only describe as a bush, and a moustache to rival Yosemite Sam. But despite this great amount of hair on the lower half of his face, he was bald as an eagle, as in, he wore a toupee.
A man collapses on the ground. Dragging his wounded body, he writhes towards the tree to lean against the trunk. His shirt is torn apart, displaying his deep swollen scratches impaled on his chiseled chest then his eyes find me, beautiful grey-violets. His face lightens up, full of hope.
I immediately rush to him, kneeling beside the man. Groaning in agony, he lets out a shallow breathing holding unto life. He has not stopped bleeding yet, blood continues to pour out.
His accent was such a playful tune, as if he were the star of his own movie. I could have sat there all day simply to listen and smile.