lion - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
With golden paws crossed before his snout and shaggy brown mane the lion's rib cage expanded and fell with the rhythm of one in deep sleep, yet he was quite conscious and alert. In the early summer daylight he was simply golden, the sleek fur laid over his elegant frame and lean muscle. His nose was broad and eyes a soft yellow-brown, large and dark rimmed. Out of nowhere he yawned like it had been a tiring day waiting for dinner to be caught. There was a flash of pink and the sight of his long tongue. Then in one fluid movement he was up and stretching just the same as a house-cat.
The lion stopped at the edge of the shade and let out a roar. It was nothing like human speech or bird song, but more of a raw sound that started deep within his body and was projected into the air with so much force that it would be heard for miles around. He was calling. In return came the calls of his pride. They had been summoned and acknowledged. After sometime of walking about, tail flicking he spied them bounding over the sun-bleached grasses, dragging a kill between them. Instead of running to greet them he simply sat and waited until the scent of blood was too much for him, then he ambled over and began to eat. He tore at the muscle with sharp teeth and ate until satisfied.
The lion had seen better days. Greg wondered how long ago he had been expelled from his pride. Once he had been fed, pampered, been a king. In his face was the lingering signs of regality, but this noble beast was thin, fur waning and dull. His eyes were sunken and his gait had a wobble uncharacteristic of his kind. He'd be gone soon, a bag of bones covered in the buff-coloured fur.
The lion shook his mane and licked at his paws. He was a cat after all. Liam chuckled inwardly. Like his uncle always said, “The only thing you need to know about cats is that if they were big enough they'd eat you.” He supposed here was the proof, they could eat him and would if they were hungry. He wanted to stroke their soft brown-yellow fur and bury his head in the lion's mane, but such childish fantasies would go unfulfilled. The only way that was happening is if he shot a tranquilizer dart into all of them, and he wasn't about to do that.
Great shaggy mane of gold, giant paws padding soundlessly on the dusty mud, sleeping at noon in the sun-flecked shade of a sprawling tree, one paw resting on his broad muzzle, like a kitten dozing. Powerful muscles beneath fur of gold, sharp claws, mighty roar, king of the beasts.
The lion walked like its joints were engineered by a higher power. I'm a believer in evolution, but something about that beast made me want to imagine it being sculpted by the divine. Perhaps He did it through natural selection, perhaps his spirit guides in ways we are unaware of. What I do know is that I could never tire of watching the pride leader, golden fur and eyes of polished stone. I don't think a person could look at them and deny they have a soul as much as any human. I hope they're in heaven too, sometimes lying in this golden grass with my camera I think I must be there already.
The lion lay in the shade of the only tree. Even in his dreams he was alert to the sounds of the savannah. He would awake to the noise of another lion or a threat to the cubs. Otherwise he slumbered until his ladies brought in a fresh kill of zebra, then he would rouse himself for first dibs.
In the dappled shade of the only tree lay the lion, his face framed by his gold and brown mane. He had all the equipment necessary to rip the traveller apart but none of the intention. His belly was full of fresh killed zebra brought in by the lionesses and he wished to doze. But it was his duty to guard the pride and so he just watched.