blinded - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
I am blind, blinded in my youth, but I can see the heart in the lilt of the voice, the turns of expression and the proximity of the speaker. There are so many ways to see and love, an awareness of love, is as powerful as any.
In those lights my retinas became flooded and all I saw was white. Sometimes light can be so similar to the dark. Yet in a few moments more I could see, the blindness quite resolved.
I was blinded so long ago and so I live through my other senses. I drink music in and feel it flow over my skin as if it were the finest of silk. Touch has become something magical, my new fireworks and rainbow arcs. Taste is something to savour, even a simple apple is so sweet. I still dream as I did before, my brain playing movies every night of what it imagines the world is.
Sebastian had been blinded, now he sat in his hospital bed, tears leaching into the bandages. In hindsight loosing his wallet would have been a sweet deal, maybe then they wouldn't have sprayed his eyes. God only knows what was in it, but it burnt like hell-fire. He'd lain crippled on the ground, screaming like death was preferable.
After the blast there was a flash of the whitest light Max had ever seen. The light seared into his eyes like a hot camera flash, but after the heat and light had gone he was left in the most complete blackness he had ever known. Even in the blackest night there is some light from the stars. He could feel the sand still shifting under his combat boots, he could still hear the ocean and the chatter of gun fire, he could still smell the saltiness of the ocean air. But he could see nothing at all.
The flash is enough to near blind me and my body reacts like there's a gun to my head. My muscles are frozen in place but filled with such a tingling pressure I want to run until my body is empty – put as much distance between myself and the bomb as possible. But all I see right now is loose forms with colour and I need the world to come back into view before I can run. I know it's adrenaline. Perhaps fleeing is the dumbest move, I wouldn't know, my brain is too fried to analyse the options. If my heat beats any harder, any louder, I might as well stick a spotlight on my head. My eyes are popped open so hard I couldn't blink if I wanted to and all the while I just want to run. Hiding might be better but I can't, all this energy has to go somewhere. As soon as I can make out forms, forms but no detail I burst from my dark spot and make for the forest. In the trees I can camouflage blend, trek away from this spot all night if I have to.
I want to be able to see their faces, their expression would give their intentions away, but it’s too dark. Without warning I’m blinded by a white light, they have a beam on me. This time I do stop, no-one walks blind. The light vanishes as fast as it was applied and my vision is gone completely. I can feel a cold sweat soaked into my undershirt and my brain is straining for any sound of approaching feet or breath. I’m a sitting duck. But after a few moments of nothing at all the street reappears like a child’s charcoal sketch under the waning moon. My breath rises before me in my long slow exhales. Calming myself is priority, fear means mistakes and I’ve made too many of them lately.
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by .
His opponent moved over the arena floor with the same fluidity as a panther. He was over six feet tall and was wide as two men. He carried the best weaponry and was the favourite to win. Marcus by comparison was a scrawny kid. The gladiator bent low to the ground as if to adjust his boot, then on straightening up he flicked his hand in a way that the crowd would not see. But Marcus knew what he had done, his eyes were full of sand and dust. He was blinded. He could see no more than a blur and all he could do to mute the pain was to clamp both hands to his eyeballs and push firmly. With frantic rubs he attempted at them to clear them and regain his vision, but it was no use. Against the roar of the crowd it was impossible even to hear approaching footfalls. All he knew was that he could expect no mercy, and unless he could think of a way out fast he was seconds away from a fatal blow.
One minute Vernon was straining against the twilight, head almost spinning on his neck to locate the next person needing cover, the next he was on his back. How the mission ended he hadn't clue, but when hands pulled him to his feet he had to wait for the voice to tell him if it was friend or foe. Jolene was asking him questions but it was all he could do not to lose his balance all over again. Aside from a hazy glow around his peripheral vision he saw only blackness and he knew it has nothing to do with the night.
The flying yellow crystals were the last thing Sam every saw. He'd imagined in his melancholy moods that it would be the face of his wife or a hospital room, but never that. Years later his muscle quite gone, he walked with a cane, his spy life over for good. Then the CIA came knocking...
Conner could have dealt with almost anything better than the loss of his vision. He was never one to walk lost in daydreams, always his eyes had been admiring the way the sunlight played on the leaves or the soft frost on the grass. He didn't get to choose though. The flash wasn't a simple flashlight it was a laser, brilliant and sharp. That's the last thing he got to see. All he does now is daydream, anything to bring back pictures of the natural world he misses so much.