accent - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Sylvia never failed to amaze when she spoke English. Although she was French she did not have that typical French accent where sentences sound monotonous and more often than not the pronunciation of some words ends up being warped. Her foreign accent was a pleasure to listen to, thanks to her speech patterns and the rhythm of her delivery. I would say that she did not always stress some words enough, but she was so dedicated to make her speech sound better all the time that you couldn't help but forgive her for that little shortcoming.
There is no hint in his voice of his Chinese heritage, he sounds as Canadian as I do, more so perhaps. I still have an English lilt to my voice passed on from my mother. I’ve never even been there and people still call me on it sometimes. Once in a while they’ll poorly mimic my alleged accent back to me and then wait to see how impressed I am. Which is not at all. Ever. They get my lazy wtf look and for the most part shut the fuck up. Even Jake tried it once. Just once.
Back home I don't have an accent. In the hills the way I talk is as common as the coarse grey shingle we cover the dirt roads with, but in the city it marks me as an outsider. With clean clothes and washed hair I look just like they do - the same dark eyes and honeyed skin. They ignore me until I must speak, then I watch their eyes harden as they try to drop the trade negotiation and move on to someone with more money. They're the ones with an accent. Where my voice rolls they bark. Where my inflections rise at the end of a sentence, theirs are flat. They think my speech is a sign of both lower intelligence and rudeness though it is neither. All these fine folks came from the country just a generation or two ago, they just like to forget that part...
Joel could be reading a Microsoft user manual and to me it would be as good as Chaucer. It's not that I don't listen to what he says, I hang on every word, but it's his west country accent that has me smitten. Everything he says flows as smooth as a meadow river and my head becomes as light as it would for the just aroma of such a place. Of course it helps that his voice is deep. He thinks I'm the world's greatest listener, and I am, but just for him.
Words rolled off his tongue in a timbre of warmth, the melodic sounds distinctly foreign.
The words tumbled slowly and cautiously out of his mouth, each one wrapped in a heavy voice. They seemed to have echoed from the roof of his mouth, spreading their warmth everywhere. When he spoke his words were so clear, clearer than clear water. It was this speech, this heavy accent of his that immediately set him apart from everyone else, that made him seem as different as he was and that too in a good way.