girl - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
There was a steadiness to her, as if all the storms in the world were a whispering breeze if she was there. She was kind and clever, perhaps that's what drew people to her. It was as if she knew she was born to be a queen of the earth, one who helped others, using her brain to fix whatever needed fixing. There was nothing "princess" about her though, just a fierce independence and a motherliness too... and she was that way from girlhood, confident with the air of a warrior. I loved her, we all did.
Her eyes spoke of a beautiful soul and her movements told of a need for nurture, but then perhaps that's how we all are. How telling it is that so many have the appearance of the animal that has known intense suffering, such at the dogs that are rescued from cruel indifference. I knew right then, that all she needed was my love, something steady to hold onto and in time those eyes would shine as they were born to. And perhaps in that rescuing of her I was rescuing myself too. For what is the appearance but the window dressing of the soul?
Her hair was as waves of pure earth, softly reflecting the light of the sun; each strand moving freely in an ocean born breeze, a compliment to her stillness. With eyes of river waters, in glossy serenity, her aura seeped into the summer air between us. And in that moment, in that fraction of time, her smile was in every God given feature, and I knew I was home.
Pia was the loudest voice in the room wherever she was. He conversations were buoyant and intended to be heard. There was something of the unsatisfied thespian in her. Everyone knew she was an art historian within moments of meeting her, like it was her most favourite badge by which to identify herself. On every subject she was opinionated and if you didn't agree with her she wasn't angry, she just pitied you for not understanding the “correct” way to think about it. But if a friend, or even an acquaintance, was in trouble she was right there with both boots on. In any crisis she took charge, steered the most efficient course through the problem and never stuck around for any "thank you". You could forget to call her for a month or three and still she'd be happy to talk to you. It was like she had been born without the ability to harbour a grudge, though I suspect it's in there, perhaps reserved for people she expects more from.
The girl had a voice that was like music under a summer breeze, almost lost against the noise of the Monday morning traffic. Yet somehow it took hold of Ted, making him want to listen all the more.
The girl stood with a hip jutted to one side, her right arm draped across her slender body, clasping the elbow opposite. Her head lolled down to one shoulder casting her bobbed hair onto the faded Prince t-shirt that was two sizes too big. It hung so low that her shorts only just peeked below the dirty hem, a fringe of denim cut-offs. Her static eyes had picked a patch of concrete with nothing to distinguish it from any other patch, it had the same cracks, the same weeds, the same grime. A car back-fired a street over, renting the air as good as any gun-shot, but instead of startling she stayed just as she was. Eric wanted a window into her mind, to find out what was going on. Somehow he knew that approaching her with questions was the wrong thing to do. She had to come to him, but how?
The girl had a nose like a cartoon character, or one drawn by a lazy artist at least. The bridge was so low-profile as to be barely there at all; so that on a face of skin all the same honeyed hue, her nose was a bump just above her dusky pink lips. There was no two ways about it, she was cute. Now all Jared had to do was work up the nerve to talk to her. He watched her approach, willing her to drop something so he could return it.
Marissa sat on the decades old green couch, not ever noticing the faded patches. Her still scrawny legs dangled over edge just like they had when she was small, but now her toes tapped the dusty boards as she sat back and listened to her music. With her eyes closed she let the lyrics flood her like an early summer breeze. They weren't always upbeat, but they soothed her just the same. If these singers felt just like her maybe she wasn't alone after all. With all thoughts of homework forgotten she brought her knees up to her chest and sucked in the smell of dinner being cooked.
Jayne perused her social media page. Betty had new shoes from that designer store all the girls talked about and Tina's man had bought her a bunch of roses. She clicked like on both. Dave hadn't bought her flowers in a while, maybe there was something wrong. Perhaps she should drop some hints. Scrolling down there were Clara's vacation photos, gorgeous, she clicked "like" again but by now there was a tense feeling she couldn't shake. She kept on scrolling, adverts from companies and posts of grinning friends, all so happy. Rachel had a new hair do. She paused to look at her hair in the mirror and just as quickly looked away again. It was frumpy and dull. She checked her messages, no-one had replied to her messages in the past few minutes. They were online though, she could see that. She closed her laptop and headed out to the coffee shop, she could book a hair appointment at the salon next door for some cool new colours. Everyone just loved those pictures: "OMG," "WOW", "So cute xxx."
The girl was young, black and beautiful. Jerry had to rip his eyes away from her every time she walked into the room. There was sunshine in her smile and and her voice went right to his brain like a shot of single malt. Her clothes were so casual, the ubiquitous look all the university girls had: tight jeans, wide necked sweater and cute brown boots. So how come on her those same clothes garbled his brain to mush, stopping him from stringing a simple sentence together; like, "Hey, wanna get a coffee?" How hard could that be? She sat at the computer next to Jerry and he almost stopped breathing. His face flushed pink. She typed fast with slender fingers, a sliver bangle tapping the keyboard edge. He wanted to complement her on it, find out her name, what she studied, where she was from. He wanted to be more to her than part of the background of the library, he wanted to be a real person to her. Then he could become her friend, and later, who knows? Maybe more...
No wonder she is called "star" - amber eyes shining like orbs in the night. Her hair was deep hues of fierce crimson against her pale face. She walked and spoke in that high class way, yet I admired her gentleness. I could sense within her eyes a deep longing, then suddenly it struck me. Friendship.
What I had assumed to be a shadow takes the form of a girl. I turn my head toward her. She is fully eclipsed by the shade of an old wall. Under my brief gaze she doesn't withdraw or flinch, but neither does she step forward to be seen. Her shape already has the beginnings of womanhood, yet I doubt she is more than half way through her teens. She stares with that look the girls around here take, one designed not to give any emotion away. She's still a child, hiding her delicate side behind a paper wall, keeping her natural smile under lock and key. Were I to talk to her she would be excessively polite, deferential even, but I can't enjoy it. It's just another sign of the violence of these parts. The tension that controls her face has always been part of her life, take it away and likely she'd reinvent it simply to keep her status quo. Like pressure in a bottle, it has to be taken down slowly to keep the mind functioning the right way. The girl isn't in any danger and so I turn back before she becomes uncomfortable. This isn't a day to loose direction...
Her name was Alli. She had chestnut brown hair with blonde highlights, nowhere near the point of being black. It lay on her shoulders like a waterfall flowing mildly; flaming as bright as a sunrise. The breeze blew through her curls, straightening them into waves that whipped about behind her. From under side bangs shone eyes the colour of a dazzling emerald green, which travelled uneasily from one person to another. No one couldn’t help but notice that they glistened every time she moved them. They were the ones that seemed to draw you into a daze; not letting you go. Her eyes seemed to shine in the sunlight, but hide in the darkness. Below them is a nose so freckled that the brown splotches overlapped much like autumn leaves after harsh winds blew. Her smile was warm with a hint of shyness and her lips were like a frozen rose, dangerous but beautiful.
Sam was older than she appeared. Willowy and without a bust she could pass for twelve, but in truth she was closer to sixteen. With elfin features and short hair she was considered "cute." But she didn't want to be "cute," wasn't fifteen years of that enough? Now she craved sexiness and the attention that went with it.
I gripped my phone in my left hand, tapping my polished fingernails against the smooth screen. I glanced down at them. They were midnight black with glitter at the tips the color of clear ocean water. I did them that morning to match my outfit, a strapless cocktail dress made of a silky black fabric. It shimmered the same color of my nail polish if the light hit it a certain way. My hazelnut hair fell in perfect curls on my olive shoulders and my soft, hazel eyes glanced around, waiting for him. My heels were too tall and my dress was too short; I was freezing outside in the cold.
She obviously had regal bearing. High, delicate cheek bones, small nose, luminescent blue eyes, creamy smooth skin, and silky blonde tresses. His gaze turned downward. She was rather petite and dainty. Delicate, if you will. She had a slender, curving waist, which was much more than many Roman women could boast. He took her all in. She was pure and had spirit. He could already feel fierce protectiveness for her. He would make sure no harm befell her, for she would surely be a welcome temptation to many of his men.
Yet, a more lovely sight awaited him. There sat petite Sapphira. Her soft, ivory shoulders were exposed and her cherry-red curls fell down her back. Her lips were carefully tinted red and her skin was flawless. Her silver eyes shone like twin moons in the grand dining hall. She wore a form fitting dress of lacey periwinkle. He plumped himself down onto the chair’s thick velvet cushion.
Tilly is in the kitchen, flour on her cheek and socks. Now that she's almost ten she moves about the kitchen with a faux-adult air, masking where she is unsure by calling me, her "assistant" to do something for her. She's adorable, but then I'm bias. I watch her in that apron she made in an art class last year. They got blank aprons and fabric paint, so of course hers is a riot of flowers with her cat painted in the middle - Mr Kitty. Well, it's just his face really looking for all the world like the cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland. She has the tabs wrapped right around her back and tied at the front where she could see the knot as she tied it. The vibrant hues are dusted with flour and smudged with cocoa, smeared with a little butter. It's a work of art on a work of art. Her face is happy but serious, when it comes to getting her brownies right it's no laughing matter.
From the fog came a figure so bundled in a thick jacket that Fred couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. As things turned out he was wrong on both counts. The face peeking out of the parker was a girl of about fifteen, practically a babe in arms. Her cheeks were blanched from the cold and her eyes partially obscured with caramel hair. She smiled in the way girls do when they're masking nervousness, and despite the cold day Fred couldn't help but feel warmed. In a way she reminded him of his daughter, though she had long since left home. He extended his hand, “Fred Watson, head ranger.” She returned the gesture and shook his hand with the gentlest squeeze. She spoke with the voice of one who's been out in the cold too long, her teeth almost chattering.
“Candice Martin, pleased to meet you, Sir.”
When Sarah stepped out of the darkness of the alley, Kyler could see what his ears were telling him already. She was limping, the gait that was smooth only this morning was faltering and uneven. Her ponytail was ragged, loose hair falling over her features that contorted with effort. On her feet were only socks and her eyes were as they had been years ago when she knew her beloved Grandmother was no longer in this world. Kyler dropped his tool belt with a clatter on the already cracked concrete and with only a fraction of a second hesitation, he ran over to her, careful not to tread on her feet with his heavy boots. Silently she tumbled, giving him barely enough time to shoot out his callused hands. Even then her dead weight was almost too much to prevent the momentum taking her to the ground.
Giggles of the girls drowned out the thudding though. He caught the eye of a lone lady, who was immediately apparent that she was not from this land. She had dark, smoked-topaz eyes and a darker maroon hair which fell to her mid-back. She had slightly paler skin than most of the womenfolk, and she had fallow freckles splattered across her face, like someone had flicked a brush tipped with brown paint across her cheeks. Her eyebrows were almost perfect; her smoked topazes inside her skull were so very seductive; her cheekbones prominent on her indulgent face. She smiled lovingly, her lips looked soft as velvet, in a beautiful shade of Frosted Tulip. She, unlike the other ladies in the room, was fully dressed: her bosoms covered completely by a white silk blouse, and a purple skirt frilling around her knees.
She sauntered in, feeling proud and confident. She smiled a billion dollar smile which was almost blinding! Her tousled blonde curls frolicked as she marched in, the lights seemed to dim as her glowing presence diminished them. The girl was like a living angel, without wings and with a halo that was concealed from sight. As her floating school blouse flapped about rapidly she continued to ponder down the corridor. Other new girls always seem to stick to the sides of the hallway, she strutted marvellously down the middle. Other new girls stayed quiet till they made friends, she flirted with every guy she came across. Other girls are shy and timid. She is no other girl!
Anyway, here she comes, now. She must be about seven or eight years old I’m guessing, First Nations certainly. She’s smiling in that same way my kid sister used to when she greeted Mom’s dinner party guests, not scared but without being relaxed enough for a genuine smile. Where the light kisses her hair we can see that it is a glossy black, long and straight. Her skin is brown and her clothing is made of soft cedar bark, her cloak lined with fur about her neck for comfort. Her feet are bare, but in these mild conditions she moves easily. We won’t understand her language, but God will translate. She’s going to tell us about her life, her family, and then you get to decide if you want to save their culture or if they are assimilated into the British ways. They are coming as I speak. I can almost smell them. You're asking how you will decide? I am going to make you the leader of the incoming British for as long as you live, but don’t worry, I’ve set this up like a Wardrobe made from an old Narnian apple tree - you’ll tumble out of the other side just the same age as you are now, back to your old life. Fun, right? You'll get two lifetimes. Also if you aren’t careful River will be dead of small pox in two weeks, thought you should know...
Found in Are you awake yet - first draft, authored by .
She is kind.
She is mature.
Her every word, every action, caters to make her depressed mother happy.
She is hot tempered.
She is rude
Her anger, often, releases towards her sexist father who loves her but has unrealistic ideals.
She isn't happy.
She is happy.
Her mind is filled with questions, her life with loneliness, and her mouth with suppressed words.
She is me.
The girl is like a snapshot out of time. I can see her chestnut hair blowing in the spring breeze, her youthful face turned toward the sun. Though her feet are scarred she still dances, dances like the joy of life within her cannot be tamed. In that purple shirt and jeans she could be anyone, no-one. But to me she is the world itself and without her I cannot enjoy a simple flower or the rising sun. There is nothing I wouldn't do to keep her safe from harm, but I cannot protect her forever. I can only be there when she falls and stand well back while she reaches for the stars.
From under long blonde bangs shone eyes the colour of wet earth, and below that a nose so freckled that the brown splotches overlapped much like fall leaves after a wind storm. Her smile was warm with a hint of shyness. I loved her already.
I'd never seen her in spectacles before, her usually pinched face quite dominated by the chunky black frame. In that dust tinctured quiet amid the periodic sounds of large pages being turned, her eyes never left the print. It occurred to me that I'd never seen her read before, never seen those features serious or that kind of basic t-shirt 'n' jeans look on her. My stomach turned. I thought I knew her, that gregarious laugh and stupid texts, LOL, OMG, ROFL. I'd been still too long, several patrons had ceased their reading to observe me, time to move on...
The girl had a smile on her face. As her brown eyes seemed to gleam across the room, she had a beam of joy dashing inside of her. She took a finger and brushed her brunette colored hair aside, as she walked. The bright red lipstick on her lips matched the red jacket wore. The heals on her feet clicked and clacked along the school hallway corridors. Her green purse rested between her fingers, carrying her items she needed for class and a social life. In her mind she was thinking only one thing.
"You are fired!"
After he said that, my mind left the office. It flew to the reactions that my family and friends were going to have. The boss was explaining the conditions of my leaving this job, this job that I held for eleven years. Then, my thoughts ran to my desk, and of the projects and clients. These goals and that desk is no longer mine. Someone else will occupy that space, and pick up on my work schedule. I will have no more lunch breaks with any of my co-workers. There will be no more sports talk with them, and no more sharing of our lives. They will say they will keep in touch, but they know as we that this one act of the boss will end all that. Something has died here on this Monday. I miss it even now.
she had blue eyes flecked with every shade of the colour and glossed over so they sparkled like a hundred diamonds; full lips and cheeks, both plump and rosy; and golden-red, perfectly curled locks that fell down her ivory skin to her elbows
She looked at me, her once fiery eyes doused in ice water, unnervingly making the blue more pale. It was like she'd drifted into a shell, so tough to reach. Just to move her heavy eyes was an effort. I was standing beside her doing my best to crack a joke, but she wouldn't spare a curve on her lips.
Massie's golden ringlets tumbled down her shoulders and back, bouncing with the strides of her long legs. The sun, as if programmed to do so, splashed into her pale face, causing her shadow to spill out and display her thin frame on the sidewalk behind her.