appearance - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Her eyes spoke of a beautiful soul and her movements told of a need for nurture, but then perhaps that's how we all are. How telling it is that so many have the appearance of the animal that has known intense suffering, such at the dogs that are rescued from cruel indifference. I knew right then, that all she needed was my love, something steady to hold onto and in time those eyes would shine as they were born to. And perhaps in that rescuing of her I was rescuing myself too. For what is the appearance but the window dressing of the soul?
“But I’m not pretty,” she said, “I don’t have hair the russet color of autumn, or eyes the sweet color of spring.”
“No,” he replied, “You do not. You have hair like the wind, wild and free. Eyes like the night, deep and mysterious. You don’t look like everyone else’s definition of pretty; you look like my definition of pretty. You have the look of adventure, of a spirit that can soar, and to me that will always be more attractive than any color or shape in the universe.”
He appeared before me, in all his grandeur. A tailored black suit with a charming red tie. His chiseled jaw lifted with a proud, pleasant smile. His eyes a sparkling green, so much like his fathers, and his soft, feather-like black hair brushed away from his brow. He was charming and smart. His voice was that of any rich boy, honeyed and proud. Every word he said sounded beautiful but you felt no compassion or trust for the speaker.
Everything about him was wrong. His head perched at an angle on shoulders that were themselves crooked and hunched. His right arm was shorter than his left. His left leg, however, was several inches longer than his right. His feet were encased in black leather shoes, one heavier and larger than the other. He wore a black leather jacket with jeans... his muscles rippled beneath the cloth as if with a life of their own. Nothing in his body was coordinated, so although he was moving forward, he seemed to be trying to go backward or sideways.
His face was even worse. It looked as though it had been taken to pieces and put back together again by a child with only a vague knowledge of the human form. There were a dozen scars on his neck and around his cheeks...
Found in Alex Rider, Skeleton Key, authored by .
She hadn't seen him for nearly three months and she was struck anew by his good looks. He had been an attractive youth, tall, rather ungainly, with a thatch of black hair. But now the gangling figure had been smoothed and tailored by success, he carried his height with easy self assurance and the grey eyes - which he knew so well how to use - held a basic wariness. His hair, frosted now with grey, was still thick with an unruliness that expensive cutting hadn't completely disciplined. It added to the attractiveness, hinting at an untamed individuality which was far removed from the tedium of conventional male good looks.
He had a thin, pointed face, almost femininely sensitive, and a small pointed beard. He was bareheaded except for the narrow golden circlet which he spent most of his waking time scheming to convert into a royal crown. The guard-captain repeated the question.
In this morning light he could be twenty-five, but in the harsher brightness of the day he’s closer to twenty, boyish and charming. Behind his tangle of black beard I can tell his lips are twitching upwards. We’re not friends, not really, but probably the closest thing each other as to one. A transitory alliance of convenience, by current standards I guess that makes us practically married. 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 but people still call me on it sometimes.
Found in Darwin's Ghost- first draft, authored by .
She takes in his dishelleved appearance. Leaves and dirt and various other gunk from the forest adorn his unruly mess of dark chocolate hair. He looks tired and worn. Blood stained bandages plaster his forehead from a fight with a soldier. Cuts and bruises decorate his face. Mud and blood streak his tattered clothes. And she thinks. She thinks, he had never looked so beautiful.
The tallest of the four, his dark hair reached the tailored shoulders of his blazer, which was left stylishly open over a crisp white shirt. He stood up tall and straight - you could almost tell he was a dancer just by his posture. His long limbs were straight but not stiff, and he held his head high. He had full dark lashes and pouted Paris lips I could not take my eyes off of. And when he looked at me, his eyes were completely blank.
He was as tall and thin as his master was short and round, with a thatch of close-cropped ginger hair on top of a face that was so pale it was almost paper white. From a distance it looked as though he was smiling, but as he drew closer, Alex gasped. The man had two horrendous scars, one on each side of his mouth, twisting up all the way to his ears. It was as if someone had at sometime attempted to cut his face in half.
Brown hair framed a heart-shaped face with expressive eyes bright with humor. A dazed expression dominated her features. Her voice was low and echoed around the behemoth room. Her cheekbones sat high on her face and a smile that sent people running and screaming curved her lips.
Jean sat on the wall, one hand clasping the toe of her worn sneaker. She looked down at her top; in the summer light it was kinda see through except the worn stars and stripes on the front. With the nail of her thumb in her mouth she scanned the square, biting down harder than she had intended and swallowing the fragment. A pigeon was coming closer, rotating between pecking at the ground and observing her with its head cocked. She let out a laugh, releasing some of the tension. Dating was crappy. She was sick of telling people about herself only for them to decide she wasn't what they were looking for; if she had to hear “It's not you, it's me” again she thought she'd puke. Then through the crowds came a guy in old shoes and a faded Metallica t-shirt. His face matched the profile picture for once. He stopped and took a bow. He was down-low, hammed up idiot into bands he should never have heard of. He had to be the one, he just had to be.
To describe his appearance would be to totally miss the point. He was an aristocrat and he didn't give a damn what you thought of the way he looked.
...a small man with grizzled black hair around a bald crown, and a grizzled beard, chewed nervously at the stump of a dead cigar and listened intently to what was--or for what wasn't--coming in to his headset receiver.
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 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.
The description of his appearance was widely circulated in the media, but by then it was pointless. He was a master of disguise.
By the time they had described his appearance to the police he had shaved his head, pierced his ear and applied a fake tattoo. He looked nothing like the sleek conman that had robbed them of their life savings.
He had a thin, high-cheeked face, with a vertical wrinkle between his eyes, and a clipped blond mustache.
Harkaman was a Space Viking. That would have set him apart, even if he hadn't topped the tallest of them by a head. He wore a short black jacket, heavily gold-braided, and black trousers inside ankle-boots; the dagger on his belt was no mere dress-ornament. His tousled red-brown hair was long enough to furnish extra padding in a combat-helmet, and his beard was cut square at the bottom.
...was drawing his fine latex gloves over stubby-fingered hands which looked unnaturally white, almost bloodless. He was tall and solidly built, giving the impression of shambling clumsiness ...His face was fleshy, the dark hair receding heavy lidded eyes dark and very bright, giving his face a look of sardonic, humorous intelligence.
There were three men in the aircraft. They were all dark-skinned, wearing faded jeans and loose, open-neck shirts. The pilot had long, black hair, deep brown eyes and a thin scar running down the side of his face.
A woman was waiting for them, broad-shouldered and severe, her blond hair twisted into the tightest of buns. She had a strangely blank, moon shaped face, wire-framed spectacles, and no makeup apart from a smear of yellow lipstick.
He was looking down at his feet like a nervous teenage boy, his hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans. The sun was shooting down, presenting his copper mane with streaks of honey run through it. His face was shadowed so his eyes appeared as a forest green unlike their amazing faded green. He looked up at me, a smile on his face.
He had gray hair and an untidy mustache, and nothing was ever quite good enough to satisfy him.
Harkaman's nose was twitching as though he had a bit of rotten fish caught in his mustache.
What, you’re uncomfortable? You don’t know what I look like? Well, take Angelina Jolie and put forty pounds on her, make her hair way less perfect, take off the make-up and add some freckles. Make the bone structure not quite so perfect, and take a few inches off her height, I’m average. I wasn’t always overweight though, not that I even look fat for my age really, just not skinny anymore. Hang on a minute, someone else is here. Oh, it’s Marsha, my longtime friend and she’s laughing her ass off. What, Marsha? I don’t look like Angelina? Not even if the Hunger Games prep team did overtime on me? Huh? Well, at least my husband is better lookin’ than Brad Pitt. There, that did it, she’s just giving me the raised eyebrow look now ‘cause she knows it’s true...
Carlo was about thirty years old with black, curly hair. He hadn't shaved. Stubble the color of cigarette ash clung to his jaw.
In appearance he was nothing special, just another grey-eyed kid from the slum - stick thin and pale like a ghost. But when he opened his mouth everyone stopped to listen, it was like hearing birdsong for the first time.
She had the type of face that would never age. It was rounder than my own, but her cheeks were sharper and longer. Her cheekbones sat lower than my own, her olive skin melding into it, making her bone structure flat. She has a long feminine nose while my is shorter and more button-like. And her eyes were dark, almond shaped jewels, that always looked proud. She always smiled without teeth, her perky pink lips shaping a gentle heart.
The stranger was slim and dark, with a slight mustache, which curled upward at the ends. He had coal-black eyes, which were very restless and very piercing. His hands were small and slim, almost womanish.
A large, plump-faced, young man in soiled khaki shirt and shorts, with extremely hairy legs, was doodling on his notepad and eating candy out of a bag.
...a black-haired girl in a suit of coveralls three sizes too big for her, and, apparently, not much of anything else, lounged with one knee hooked over her chair-arm, staring into the screen at the distant horizon.
His assistant stopped at the door. This assistant was not human. He was a biped, vaguely humanoid, but he had four arms and a face like a lizard's, and, except for some equipment on a belt, he was entirely naked.
... he had curly black hair, on his head and on a V of chest exposed by an open shirt. There was an ashtray in front of him, and a thin curl of smoke rose from a cigar in it, and coffee steamed in an ornate but battered silver cup beside it. He was grinning gleefully.
She had dark brown hair and gray eyes; if she had not been so obviously frightened she would have been beautiful.
...he had coarse black hair, a mahogany-brown skin, and red-brown, almost maroon, eyes.
Pale skin. Pale as death. Jagged , grotesque cheekbones. Skeletal shoulders draped in black. Two blazing pools of malice and evil stared at me and a smile full of crooked yellow teeth sat in a red-rimmed mouth
Then she sat on her dressing table stool which was square and wooden and looked into the mirror. In the mirror she saw a completely ordinary looking girl. If someone who only met her once would not recognize her in a crowd of her own age group. She was not too tall nor short, not too fair neither too tan, her hair were not too long nor too short, neither flat straight nor wavy. Her eyes were hazel, symmetrically shaped with flat eye lashes and perfectly trimmed eyebrows.
one thing that her appearance was her own, her face was her own and none could change that
The tall woman strode towards me, her snakeskin heels click clacking on the marble floor as she approached. My eyes examined her face with uncertainty. She had a strong jaw and definite check bones that gave her a strong appearance. She had curved eyebrows that led to her bold forehead. She wore dark sunglasses over her eyes, even though we were inside. Her lips were rose pink and made a small heart when she opened her mouth. “Welcome to Laverina.” She said in a purr. I just stared at her. Her skin was unblemished and perfectly toned. And her nose was small and pointed. And her hair, oh her hair, it curled down her back in silky chocolate ripples and her wispy bangs tickled the side of her right cheek. I wanted to touch her hair; I wanted to comb my fingers through it. She looked perfect and strong, without a single weakness. But then looks can be deceiving.
What? Now you don’t think he is. How did I get someone like that and what does he look like? Slow down, honey. I’ll tell you. One question at a time. Way back in my youth I was fit, really fit, an athlete who could run ten kilometers and win medals, trophies. It wasn’t that hard really, just putting one foot in front of the other until the finish line. Truthfully I enjoyed it. Whether it was a country road or a tarmac street the steps became miles and they passed in a wonderful, exhilarating blur. There were faces, people clapping, the refreshing wind. At the end if I wasn’t falling over from empty legs I never really felt like I’d given it my all. I competed hard and I always won my category. Not that it makes me a super runner, I bet a lot of girls could have done it, but most my age were too busy thinking about boys and make-up, but they were normal, I was the loner freak - but a toned one. But enough of that, it feels like boasting about someone else, that’s how long ago it was. Perhaps I’m just throwing my ego a bone, it’s hard to keep that healthy at my age, hence all the mid-life crises.