character quirks - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
As the seasons came and went the avenue changed it's colour palate. In the fall it was all about red, the winter brought brown and white, while the warmer months were simply green with splashes of summer blooms. The trees were lined up like an advance guard, Jenny liked that. She imagined they were soldiers frozen in time, their boughs at the ready, but then she loved Tolkien more than most. Rain or shine she let her fingers brush agains their gnarled trunks on the way to her morning bus, there was something about the feel, something of the earth. But no matter the time of year the traffic stayed the same, a procession of cars with drivers focusing only on their destination rather than the journey. Jenny wondered if they even noticed the leafy guardians about them, ever raised their eyes from the weary tarmac.
The newspaper lies on the table, curled and with teeth marks from the dog. Jasper looks down at it like it's week old pasta, his mouth scrunched and eyebrows arched. Then with a “pock, pock” noise that he makes with his lips, he moves on to the kitchen to brew coffee. There was nothing right with chewed up news, just thinking about it made his fingers curl. Now the spit was on the table too, he winced until the familiar aroma met his nostrils. Now that was more like it, perfect Arabica bean and cream. One oven heated danish and he was ready to start his day. But perhaps he'd go out the back way, just seeing what was left of his paper would set him on edge again and that would never do. Not at all.
The janitor moved like someone schooled in dance. He wasn't cleaning so much as meditating, side-stepping and turning in fluid motions as if the mop were a beloved partner. We laughed until our bellies ached but he would only smile back, wink and keep on dancing. I bet when they old goat dies they'll find a juke box where his heart should be, stuck on repeat, playing the greatest hits from his long ago youth.
Crying is how I understand myself best. When I cry I know who I really am. I cry when others hurt as well as myself. I cry at the brutal world news and stupid soft movies. It's my strength and my weakness. Strong because it brings understanding and weak because who wants the listener to weep when they are looking for a strong shoulder? I wish I could turn my tears off, I do. Or perhaps just save it until I'm alone, but I'm not wired like that. My emotions swirl like ocean currents, deep and strong. Sometimes I'm scared to dive in incase I don't make it out again, but I can't be anyone else, I don't suppose any of us can.
After only a few minutes in the sun the ice cream had begun to melt, Cindy watched it until there was a golf ball sized lump in the middle and then stirred rapidly with her spoon. Perfect. She never liked to eat it when it was so cold, the flavour just didn't come through right. She grinned down at the ceramic bowl of desert, and picked up her favourite long handled spoon. She wondered if she'd still be doing this in fifty years, probably, why change perfection?
Wears glasses at a crooked angle, stammers, always wears a hat, hums, raps fingernails in a rhythm on any hard surface, uses jargon instead or normal terms, uses acronyms whenever possible, smiles knowlngly all the time, scruffy hair, dresses in incongruous clothing from charity stores, purses lips and raises eyebrows, tuts, loves shoes, never wears a coat, smells of mothballs.