curious - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
In the shadowy gloom of the old warehouse there is a silhouetted figure, thin and unmoving. I crouch against the tin walls taking in shallow breaths, careful not to make a sound. After a few minutes my curiosity is peaked. No-one can be that still, not even me. Even so, I slide around in the shadows until I'm closer. Now that the figure is feet away I see that it is utterly white, even the eyes and it's stillness is rock-like, inhuman. I can breathe freely now, it's just a mannequin; one of those dummies from the stores. I creep out and stand face to face with it, I almost laugh. It's plastic, cold to the touch and it wobbles even with a slight poke. Then my eyes fall to the skinny arm, it wears a blue armband. Odd. I don't like odd things, it never means anything good. But when I turn there is a new figure, leaning against the exit, tall and muscular, male without a doubt. Then the silence is shattered by a crunch that can only come from an apple. No-one has these things anymore.
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by .
Vijval watched TV like all the other kids, but he wasn't thinking about the story or rooting for the characters in their dark times of peril. He wanted to know how it worked and under that glossy black screen was an answer. The day he turned eight he was finally left alone with it. The family were out shopping for Diwali, with luck he had a few hours to take the thing apart and get it back together. They'd never even know! He dragged a chair to the shelf with the tools and got himself a variety of electrical screwdrivers. It was harder work than he'd imagined, many of the screws were stuck at first. In thirty minutes the back was off. It was no plasma screen, it was deeper than it was wide or high. There were wires, coils and things that just made no sense at all. Like any good puzzle he'd just have to take the pieces out and see how they fitted for himself. He wanted to know what each part was made of and what it did. He sorted and categorized the parts and made his own theory...
Selma's eyes would wander to the filing cabinet whenever her work was boring or she was between tasks, which was often. Gina kept it locked but she'd seen the hiding place of the key last week. At first she hadn't cared about the discovery, it was just a dumb cabinet, but then she started to think about her job more. She arranged shipments of parcels all over the world without knowing what was in them. They were simply "product." There had bee some unusual activity lately too, Some guys came in looking like marines in suits and spoken to her deferentially. It was time to know what Miss Prissy was up to. What did she do to earn all that bling and a pair of fancy shoes for every one of her many outfits. She watched Gina leave in her blacked out SUV and went to her personal box of tea bags. Gina didn't make her own drinks - ever. In it was the key wrapped in some kind of blotting paper. Damp to the touch. Her skin began to sweat on contact in seconds and soon she was vomiting...
Unlike a gate of wood that was common to the neighbourhood, this one was fashioned from black iron. She had seen pictures of such gates in story books, artistic and pretty. This one looked like it's maker had an imagination lobotomy. It was just a rectangle with bars from top to bottom - more like something from a prison than a garden centre. Saskia pressed her nose into the gap and moved her eyeballs side to side. Then she saw the tell-tale twitch of a curtain beyond. She huffed. Why put such a gate here if you don't want people to look?
The painting is too small. I wonder why the artist did that. Were they short on canvas and oils or was there a point? The scene is a small row boat on the sand, abandoned to rot in the abrasive and damp air of the beachfront. I want to see what is around it. Is it truly alone or does it simply appear to be that way. Perhaps just off the canvas is a man with sanding paper and a fresh pot of poppy coloured paint, a man with skin more craggy than the rocks and hair whiter than the sea foam spray.
A man stepped from the shadows, a man too thin and gaunt to be from this neighbourhood. How he'd evaded the security I'm not quite sure. His eyes were the same brown as my fathers but his skin was more brown, more deeply wrinkled too. There was a seriousness about him that unnerved me and I had reached for my citizen alarm. Once pressed he would be photographed, identified and his personal chip traced to within a one metre radius. But all he did was drop an envelope on the ground, photographs spilling out from the top. He nodded once and retreated into the blackness he'd come from. I should now be pressing my alarm, calling the enforcers, but I want to know why he risked his life to drop some pictures on the concrete.
Leo focused on the two, his curiosity building like a cat fixated upon its prey.
Lying on the ground was a traffic cone, mud splattered and cracked. It just didn't belong there. There were no road works for miles. Lara walked closer and bent down to pick it up. The mud wasn't even the rich black of their neighbourhood, it was a sloppy washed out grey, clayish perhaps. She took two fingers to put it right side up, careful not to smear her office clothes. She dragged it next the sidewalk and started back to her house. That's when she saw the disposable camera and the feathers, pink, yellow and cyan. Whatever had happened in the street last night she wished she'd seen it, but she'd had the best nights sleep in ages and that wasn't a thing to be regretted.