glare - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Glare and spit, it was all the old man would do. The only thing that moved was his masticating jaw, working the tobacco around his yellowed teeth. His eyes were hard-rimmed and fixed, so much so that it was as if he was no longer able to move his eyeballs, like they'd rusted into place.
His glare sucked something out of Taylor. She visibly wilted before his first clipped word was uttered. For such a feeble man, boyish in dimensions and stature, his mannerisms brought the temperature down in the bar every time he walked in, always dusting some invisible fragment from his blazer. He never looked at any of the rest of the staff, just her, never blinking. Then he'd pull up a tall stool and sit, his eyes never leaving her face. The other staff would attempt a "rescue" from time to time, but their voices died faster than ants in acid. He simply waited until Taylor came, devouring her every feature until she served him the same order he'd been requesting for a fortnight.
His gaze fell like an act of violence, a glare to stop her heart. For in that moment she knew that the man she loved was nothing more than a character, an act. This was the real Tom and for some reason he was no longer afraid to show it.
Dora's glare was the only message he needed. Nothing she said afterwards registered in his mind; like watching a movie on mute. She knew. She knew. That was all he needed to know. The love of a decade unravelled in seconds. Her perpetually soft eyes were as hard as any store front mannequin. In that instant he knew they'd never speak another beautiful word and he chose to never utter an ugly one her. And so it was that on a crisp October morning Alfred walked away with only the shirt on his back and a pocket of loose change.
I swear the looks I get from the butter seller could be the dictionary definition for "glaring." I bet if I peel back the crisp, white, unturned pages of the Oxford edition all I'll see is those cool grey eyes. It isn't just that his irises are monochrome or that the lines etched around them in wrinkles never move, only deepen. It is the kind of glare that harbours intent. There's a tale behind it, something I'm connected to but I don't know what.
The person Marv had once been was no more. Instead of his soft gaze that promised laughter and easy banter, his eyes glared with an intensity that tightened Amelia's chest. Though they still shared memories, his eyes drilled out of her any notion of shared spirit. A little piece of her died on each visit, another strand of connection between them shattered. All his life he'd worried about cancer, but never a disease that would alter his mind and leave his body robust for years to come.
He laughed heartlessly, looking down at her as if she was just another child begging him for pity. But she wasn't. Instead of lowering her head she lifted it, a stony glare carved into her dark eyes. Fury blurred her sight but she tightened her jaw and glared at him.
There was no softness in that gaze. It was a look that conveyed a bubbling hatred. Disgust perhaps. Yet he was a stranger. I searched my memory for possible people I could have wronged, no memory of him stirred. Disconcerted I averted my eyes to my cell phone as if checking the time and hurried north toward a busier street. I'm generally a bit of a loner but right now a crowd will soothe me. Anonymity. One of the faceless youth in their faded jeans and sneakers. No-one could single me out there.
Arwin locked eyes with him from across the cell, arms folded and a hellishly mean glare on his face. This was the proverbial guard from the world outside of Tajo and him that he had been stupid to drop. He paused for a moment in the name of pissing off the guards even further, before slinking over to the other side of his cell to confront them. He slumped against the steel bars.