Fearful - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Nuna walks into the room like the floor will give out under her tiny body mass. Every step is so light that she makes no sound at all. I know all Pierre sees is her fearful face and body language, but I see her bravery. She is so afraid yet still she comes, walking softly forwards.
Gordon will never admit his fear. He can be at a level that would induce paralysis in others and yet he carries on as if nothing is wrong. Not a man in a thousand could spot his tension. He is the swan, swimming over the late, even if a great monster is coming his way with mouth open. Still he smiles and never quickens his pace. "Never let the enemy know they have you on the run and sometimes run when it isn't necessary, keep them guessing Ava."
The air is sweet and the breeze cool, a perfect day in late fall. There is nothing outside my door but sunshine, yet just to step into it makes my heart thump in my chest. At the other end of this walk is a Vick, a man whom I can't be sure is on my side. He makes all the right noises; his face creases in all the right places, but I can't bring myself to trust him. They say it was him that brought Jessie down, him that cut the final threads that kept him safe from harm. I saw Vick at the funeral, crying like he was his own son and the memory makes me feel almost dead inside. The only thing left is the fear, the fear of ending the same way. Jessie was a good boy and he didn't deserve what came to him, I can't think how anyone could earn an ending like that.
I can feel the cage closing in, the sealing off any viable exit. I dreamt last night of sitting in church as a masked man painted over every window until every last one of them was black. I awoke before the dawn into blackness and my heart almost exploded for fear it was true. If every door closes, every window concealed, I cannot complete the mission that is my purpose. The fear is a weight on my ribs and a dull ache in my eyes, an unwillingness for my mouth to lift past neutral. I can double down on my efforts for a victory or sit back and be prey - sheep or lion - my choice, my path.
I'm not allowed to be afraid. I'm not allowed to show the tenseness that grows in my head and heart. I am to be "warrior" and "protector," preferably wrapped up with "comedian" to ease the others. There is a height at which manhood is expected regardless of age and I simply reached it faster than my peers. A few growth spurts too many and childhood is gone well before the teen years begin. So I rise to the expectations; I stand tall no matter what comes my way, sword drawn and resting on the ground beside me. It is not for me to regret who I am, but to fulfil the destiny given. So I ball up the fear when I must, allow it to seep out when its safe, and know that head lies a path I was born to follow.
Nadim desperately tried to hide how fearful he was. He could control the tremor in his voice to a degree. He could consciously will his body movements to be less stilted. He could make himself smile somewhat even if it looked pasted on. But his perspiration was a law unto itself and in no time at all there were two darkly staining patches under each armpit.
The artillery fire was closer now. He hunkered down into the muddy trench and stared around at the gaunt, strained faces of his comrades. Some were wide eyed like terrified children, others were curled up with their eyes shut tight as if they could will themselves into another place and time if only they tried hard enough. At night the deathly silence was punctuated only by stifled sobs and the occasional burst of gunfire.
Whether it was a pit bull or a chihuahua, his reaction was always the same. If it was less than five meters away he broke into a cold sweat. At less than three meters he'd start edging away in a manner he hoped was both casual and masculine. If the pooch broke his one meter safety zone he screamed and ran like a girl.
With a chalk-white face and dry mouth he slumped against an iron beam, his guitar hanging loosely in his sweaty hand. The five thousand strong crowd fidgeted and chattered in front of the stage. His left leg began to shake uncontrollably and his bowels felt worryingly loose. Any minute now he would be introduced, him, Tom Nolan, the warm up act. His mind buzzed like an electrical circuit struck by lightening. The lyrics became scrambled in his head, his eyes dried in their sockets and vomit rose into his mouth.
It's the feeling of the tightening in your chest. It's the way that when you open our lips, no sound can make it past, or the way it robs you of your senses and replaces it with something that makes your muscles contract and eyes widen in dread. It's the fear that you feel when there's a movement in the corner of your eye, or you don't know where she is, where she is, where is she? It's the desperation in a scream and panic in your eyes and the fear -- the pure, unadulterated terror.