a young man - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The man had lost the traces of boyhood. Amy took in his appearance in the refection of the coffee shop glass. From her seat it would appear if she were staring out of the window. She took in his muscles, the clean shaven square jaw and tuned into his voice. It was as deep as any man. He smiled with ease and made fluid arm movements to exaggerate his buoyant speech. He couldn't be much over twenty. He had that Clarke Kent look about him, the dark hair and glasses - almost nerdy but strong. In another five years her age might hinder her, but at thirty-five she was still a good looking woman, and one with money. She closed her hand around her cup, feeling the warmth, taking in deep drags on the espresso fumes. She wanted him. Not for keeps, just to play, and she always got what she wanted...one way or another.
Marve looked down at the dark locks that had been attached to his head moments before. He ran his hand through the stubble that stretched over his scalp, thicker than a freshly harvested field. It was coarse to the touch, all trace of softness gone. He smiled. This was the new him. He could be soft on the inside all he wanted, but his outside had to be tough and composed. It was about time nice guys finished first, even if they had to look tough to do it.
I have all the bad habits Todd worked seven years to loose. I eat the crap, drink the alcohol and treat women like they have an expiry date. He was just like that when we were eighteen. It was a lot of fun. We got drunk, arrested and arrested while drunk. We chatted up the girls and cooked up get-rich-quick schemes. Bit by bit he changed though. It started with exercise and finished with proposing to Kim. Now he's all set to be the responsible husband, the bread winner. I'm like a permanent case of the flu to him and he knows he's only two personal disasters away from catching it again. I tried to cut him out for his own good, let him have the picket fence life he needs. But apparently that's not an option. Last fall I lost my job again, he paid my rent and put in a good word to get me in at the docks. It's good money. So now whatever happens it looks like I'm gonna be “Uncle Frank” to Todd's kids, I guess I'll just have to try not to be too bad of an example.
Every time I was around Gary my head span faster than a helicopter blade. The person I saw depended on who he was talking to and what he wanted. He could be everything from bad-ass to vulnerable, albeit with a new story of each new situation. He had an infinite number of childhoods; his parents were happy, divorced, fighting, abusive or dead. His Dad had been a banker, a road digger, a burglar or unemployed. His mother had been a drunk, a politician, a Sally-home-baker or a tart. He was an only child, the last of eight, brought up in a foster home or the heir to a fortune. Part of me wanted to walk away, but I was the only one he could tolerate. Why? Because I never asked to see behind his ever changing disguise. Inside that body was a kid, a kid locked in at some emotional age far younger than his twenty-something exterior. I'll never know what happened to him, but whatever it was it just stopped his development at that age. It's a one-way friendship, I know, but he needs someone...
The young man before Jayda had a sort of hen-pecked look. His shoulders hunched together like he was trying to disappear inside himself. Even his dark eyes seemed to be attempting to retreat inside his head. She guessed at european heritage, mediterranean most likely. It was her job to welcome the guests and so she made towards him with an outstretched hand and the kind of smile she usually reserved for her best friend. He startled like a deer in the woods, almost toppling as he took a large step backwards. He brushed imaginary dirt from his dress-shirt and pants and let his face fall with gravity again. Jayda stepped aside while he slunk past not looking left or right.
I would have said he was a boy from the chubby face but he was simply too large to be a child. He sat on the sea wall checking texts, oblivious to both the weather and the goings on further down the beach. At his feet was a longboard of sorts, high-end from the looks of it. I turned away to scan for a signpost and when I looked back he was walking quickly down the promenade, board under his arm instead of at his feet. His body wasn't that fat really, certainly not slim, and his clothing wasn't skater-ish at all, in fact it was more biker boy. Somehow he'd poured himself into leather pants and a white t-shirt. I'd already begun to admonish myself for staring when some kid started going frantic on the sand, like he was looking for something important...
There was a man on the steps. He would have been white if it weren't for all the freckles. There were so many his face was brown with small pale spaces here and there, like the tips of grass struggling to show through the golden-brown leaves of fall. His hair was a perfect mop of red, it would have been lion-like had he not been so skinny. His old maroon t-shirt was a small, but on him it was like his big brother's shirt, clinging where it shouldn't and hanging loose where it shouldn't. The concrete steps were damp from the morning rain, but he was sat right on them like it was summer. Already the frigid water was seeping in. Surely he must feel it. His arms were wrapped tightly around his knees that jutted up sharply. I took in his face for as long as I dared look, skeletal really. No-one's cheekbones should stick out so far. His face had no trace of life other than not being blue. It was like he was breathing without really being alive. In his hand was a torn photograph...
The man that enters has the form of an adult but not the confidence. He moves like he's still taking that tall body for a test drive, not really sure if it's his for keeps. When the girls look his way he returns the glance with a hint of shyness just briefly before turning away. His clothes look like mother is still choosing, or perhaps he's just conservative, either way Jessie will have him signing on the dotted line in ten minutes, she always does.
You can't tell from the clothes who's inside 'til they look up. They line-up for more clothes for hours and take the next parcel to come out of the window. Every thing is in extra large no matter what their size is so a length of rope is included to keep the pants from falling down, I've never seen a skinny roamer anyway. On the bench there's a jumble of sweat-pants and tweed jacket, both damp from the light rain. The head is under a baseball cap and the feet dangle sock-less in shoes about to fall off. We put down the bucket of breakfast sandwiches and call out, "Hey! Food!." He startles and sits in a split second, eyes wide and mouth hanging slack. He looks like my friend Joey when he gets a brain freeze. Then it hits me. He's about Joey's age, still suffering the last throws of acne. His hair was dyed black but now only the tips are, the rest is as brown as the wood he rests on. Jenny grabs a still warm foil wrapped cob and takes it over. "Thank you" tumbles from his numb lips...
Despite the crispness of the suit and the perfect tailoring the man inside wasn't far out of high-school. Against his smooth brown skin his black hair moved in the spring breeze. It was cold enough for some to be in winter jackets still, but he made no motion to suggest he even felt it. On his feet were shiny black shoes that Freddy couldn't imagine the guy polishing himself. At his side was a case in fine brown leather. So this was the guy he had to befriend and betray. Not hard. Kids like that were always lonely and bored, just had to find the right angle. And as for the betrayal part, he didn't see a problem with that. He hated him already.
Liam had all the height of a man but none of the bulk. There were muscles under his shirt, but not the bulky kind men can get from years of weight lifting. From behind he could be anywhere in his late teens to early thirties, but when he turned that face was all boy. He was lit up with that grin boys wear when they have something mischievous planned. His sandy hair flopped over his eyes in the way no office worker could get away with and on his wrist were bracelets in woven leather. He was eighteen if a day and he stole my heart without even knowing it was in his pocket.
The young man at the door had a hank of dirty blonde hair. He was broad-shouldered and tanned, the paragon of a field hand, and I filed him as scything hay or loading sheaves of wheat into a wagon under a hot sun.
Both men were molded by the physically demanding labor of hauling the nets on a sparling boat, but their resemblance ended there. Aetref had features like a blue-eyed hawk, piercing eyes, narrow nose with a vague hump and hook. The sun at sea had bleached his hair and tanned his skin. Gem was born dark, his hair black and long, held bound in a tail. Pale gray, his eyes were startling, fringed with dark lashes, feathery as a mare's.