Eyelashes - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
He studied her as she slept. Her hair was matted and splayed about the pillow her head sunk into. Her small frame was curled to one side as if in protection of itself and her full lips were slightly parted. What held his attention longest however were her lashes. Long, thick, and dark. They weren't caked in that black paint she brushed into them everyday that clumped her lashes together unnaturally and by the end of the day had crumbled under her eyes and added to the already dark bags beneath them. He had never seen her without the makeup she wore as a barrier between her and the world. He wanted to run his fingers over those lashes. He could bet they were as soft as silk, light as a feather. The moonlight that crept through the window fell over eyes and made those lashes glisten so that from the correct angle they looked almost white. He wanted to kiss each one of her eyelids and feel those lovely lashes tickle his lips. He never wanted to see those lashes damp. Not ever again.
They were long, and black. Every time I blinked I could feel the constant reminder of what my life had just done. At dawn I would build them up, and at dusk I would wash them down the drain. Except for tonight. Tonight I would stay out past the curfew and crawl in through the window. In fear of the screaming sink, I will leave the idealized beauty applied to them. They will flutter up and down rapidly trying to convince me that they need to stop. But tonight I will pick them up and down and stare at the text he sent me. But now you aren't as lush and perky. They suddenly begin to show a more grey color as they have stretched themselves over a wider area. Tonight the color that I applied to you will paint my cheeks. They refuse to participate any longer. In a desperate act to refuel, they begin to droop. Tonight my eyelashes are the only thing hiding me from the I love you text, that didn't have my name written at the end.
His eyes, they were, in a word, beautiful. From afar they were a plain ebony, as normal as any other pair. But up close they were fascinating, the plain ebony was so much more, when the sun's golden hue reflected off them, they were a navy, with just a gentle touch of auric. If there were lush green rolling hills, they would look rejuvenated. They could consume a person just with the stories that they told, stories of bravery, happiness, sorrow, contempt, envy and the most hypnotizing of them all, love. They were the stage whose curtains were his long, flowing eyelashes. The very eyelashes that were seen when he was asleep, covering his eyes, like a warm protective shield. His tears rolled off their edges, both in joy and in misery. They curled up gently, like the waves during low tide. Each one of them had their own place and purpose. They often got into his eyes, just to annoy him, but it was one of the little jobs that had to be completed from time to time.
Satin black they glistened in the fading light produced by the embers. It was as if the seraphim themselves had woven them out of the finest ethereal silk, that of the which that would have robed the Madonna. When she blinked they fluttered like a pair of butterflies descending from the heavens, and beneath them were two orbs of such an intensity that they struck men dumb without the slightest effort. The words of men could do these "eyelashes" no justice, for they were made of finer substance than the works of Chaucer and Milton combined.
Her eyes were framed by long, ebony lashes, free of mascara. When she looked down, they nearly brushed her cheekbones, and the light cast shadows of her eyelashes onto her cheeks, creating long streaks like threads of silk.
She shifted her eyes downward, thick black lashes brushing the apples of her high cheeks.
Her eyelashes were long, and dark, and they curled. That was perhaps how a logically minded person would describe them, if they bothered to at all.
A poet would say that they were dark as a moonless night, long as her gaze held theirs and curled like a leaf drying on the pavement.
An artist would say that they were a brush of black paint against the perfect canvas of her face, sending shadows streaking through the syrupy gold of her irises.
I would simply say that they were dark enough to catch my eye, long enough to hold them and curled enough to ensnare my heart.
The corners of his lips turned up in a slight smile as his eyes dropped to the floor, a strangely demure gesture for him. As he looked back at me, tossing his bangs from his eyes, I was momentarily swayed by the dark brown eyes that sparkled up through long, dark lashes that I'd never noticed before. Sure, I'd been jealous of his smooth, fawn-colored skin before (especially in summer, when it darkened to a more tawny shade). I'd coveted several times the thick, straight hair that hung down to the small of his back and almost never seemed to move an inch out of place, even with how much he played with it. But now, even while his expression changed to a more confused one, I was captured by the fringe of sooty black lashes rimming his eyes. Once again my mind turned to the idea that he could very easily pass as a girl had he wanted to, and it was the damn eyes that solidified that for me. Just my luck; I had fallen for my best friend, and he'd never be into me.
Her eyelashes were long and thick, overhead piercing ice blue eyes and framing them in such a way that could be considered seductive.
When the nurse left us and closed the door behind her, I stared at Branston's unconscious form. He looked like he was asleep, but he wasn't. His expression was blank. His eyes, void of any emotion, now imprisoned behind black lashes. The only sound in the room was the machines keeping him alive and the pounding of my heart as it sang out a lamenting tune.
His eyelashes, the most human thing about him. They were fine and silky, like small needles delicately attached to his weathered skin. They fluttered up and down the frequent times he blinked- almost like they were breathing themselves, calmly. Sometimes I imagined someone had painted them , or perhaps he cried for them to be so black. Ah, but when he opened his cold, cold eyes I would always be reminded that they too were as black as his soul. After all he was a stone cold killer.
Her eyelashes were the head of a broom that swept the dust from my antique heart.
The quick flutter of her lashes showed perplexion while her eyebrows knitted together to complete the look of bemusement. He was mesmerized by her eyes as he looked right into them. The dark hairs that followed the shape of her eyes could one moment make her look more intense by squinting, or more beautiful than the stars when she smiled.
The girl woke up on Christmas day and wiped her eyelashes, erasing the sleep which had been camping in her upper lashes; which were short, stubby and barely visible because of her light blonde hair.
Her eyelashes were long and curled. Each individual lash was coated with a thick layer of black mascara which made them stick to each other in clumps.
Fluttering, I am constantly reminded that they are the essence of my beauty. Captivating, the men can't seem to stop staring. Is it really possible, or are these men stupid? The way they drool and lust at me, it’s as if my eyelashes has magic, potent, yet seductive, pulling them in.
A glimpse in the mirror showed the reflection of what appears to be long and curvaceous but sensuous lashes, quite appealing to my face. They swept across my cheeks, caressingly as I slowly closed my midnight blue eyes….
My thick ebony eyelashes, free of mascara, get in the way of my view as I look into my microscope at the tiny organisms I am studying. I sigh and try to hold my eyelids open. This is the only time that I notice how long they are. I glance over and see him watching me again. He is staring at my eyelashes. I sigh and turn back to my studies. Why do I have to be a beautiful tomboy?