bangles - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Those bangles were my aunt, I guess that's a silly way to say it. But they were the liberty of her spirit somehow, the light from their rainbow hues matching the light in her heart and soul. They would make a sound that was a sort of laughter, and she laughed so very much. So those bangles, and those bright, bright sari's, the ones that brought summer blooms and petals to my imagination, that was her.
There were bangles cast over the dusty concrete floor. All of them were a dull steel colour, though likely it was tarnished silver. Aaron picked one up for a closer look; most of the crystals were gone and in the weak sunlight they cast back a tired reflection from beneath the fine dust.
Bangles, perfect bangles, each one untouched and glittering. Together, in their solid rows, they were like pipes whose water flowed on the outside instead of within. Kayla stood mesmerized, her eyes following the sparkles like a glistening ocean under an unshielded sky.
The bangles were machine perfect, circles more round than the sun above, and shining like rippled water in the brilliant summer light. Leona reached out to touch one expecting the metal to be hot, yet they were as cool as a winter bench in the park.
Gina flicked her hand lazily to signal the server should leave; her bling-bling platinum bangles shifting and clinking to exaggerate the dismissal. Then she returned her arms to their resting position; elbows on the well-shined table and manicured nails almost touching her lips. The bangles fell to the soft skin part way down her arm and lay glinting in the afternoon rays, bright against her brown skin. There they would rest until she had finished drawing information out of the imbecile before her. The man was trying too hard, laughing too easily, uncomfortable in a suit that had a new sheen. She on the other hand underplayed her part, coy and a little slow to warm. Let him feel like he's in charge, that he earned my trust. He was easier to steer than her new Mercedes. She remained girlish, innocent. Beneath her mask of delight and interested listening she was planning this death and the disposal of his body in the same manner most people reserved for write a list of household chores.
As Gina raised her arm to move back the velvet drape her bangles cascaded further down her arm than they would have only a week ago. She checked, pale and jaw clenched for the dusk courier. He'd better have the parcel this time of she's have to take action. Papa needed those drugs and her useless brother and mother were't lifting a finger to help her. If anything they were a hinderance. She lowered her arm in an subconscious strike, venting her disgust, sending the bangles crashing down to her hand. Before she could splay her fingers two had hit the terracotta tile. The noise jarred her but was not enough to wake her patient. She picked up the diamond encrusted white gold bangles from the floor and pulled out her phone. It was better not to communicate unless necessary, that's what Papa said, but right now she couldn't help herself.
The bangles came in every shade. They reflected the intense rays of the August sun and each one was warm to the touch. The vendor observed Aruna carefully, his eyes narrowed and he forced his mouth into a congenial smile. She tried one on and let her hand fall to her side. The bangle hit the dirt before she could gasp and the man scowled. She wiped the bangle on her skirt and handed it back with a fast stiff action, her face tense and pale. Then she ran for her father. "Blossom," he said, "they may come in a million delightful colors but they only come in one size. Rich, over-fed housewife size."
The bangles danced on her arm like the hoops of a magician, playfully tinkling and sliding from her forearm to her hand, where they rested halfway between her knuckles and her wrist. The swarovski crystals set in silver metal sparkled in the sun, pale and yet brilliant against her chocolate skin. Her gangly skinny legs gave away her mere thirteen years, but with the bangles she felt twenty-three and ready to take on the world.
Jolene could never wear bangles, fashionable though they were. Even the thinnest in the gayest of colours brought to mind the shackles of the gulag. They sent a shiver over her skin that made the scars on her back grow sharply cold, as if the long slivers of pale pink skin were shards of ice. She needed her arms to be free, her clothing loose and her hair clean...