look and appearance - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
A smile flashed across her face from beneath reems of hair. It created slight dimples and creases that moved her freckles. Even though it was gone quickly, it was still there. She dipped her head down; never someone to be loud or extroverted. That was something I appreciated in so many ways-she just got on with it and never needed anyone else’s validation. Casting her eyes to the side, I could see the shape of her face like a silhouette. It gracefully moved up and over her cheek bones then slanted sharply at her mouth. Being milk bottle white only gave her an extremely ethereal quality that glowed out of her near translucent skin.
Each of her shoulders curled in, towards her chest. She was as statue at this time, drilled down with a sense of being completely exposed, on display. Each of her fingers were laced together with one another, holding herself together amidst her fragility.
A man stepped from the shadows, a man too thin and gaunt to be from this neighbourhood. How he'd evaded the security I'm not quite sure. His eyes were the same brown as my fathers but his skin was more brown, more deeply wrinkled too. There was a seriousness about him that unnerved me and I had reached for my citizen alarm. Once pressed he would be photographed, identified and his personal chip traced to within a one metre radius. But all he did was drop an envelope on the ground, photographs spilling out from the top. He nodded once and retreated into the blackness he'd come from. I should now be pressing my alarm, calling the enforcers, but I want to know why he risked his life to drop some pictures on the concrete.
I looked up at my reflection, my eyes, that shone the color of dampened soil in the summer, my favorite of my Italian traits. I had curled my dark locks, that always danced in between a black and brown, so that they hung in more waves than curls that could sit atop Shirley temples head. My olive skin was brushed with makeups and blush to bring out the sharp structure on my bones and I wore a soft pink shade on my thin lips.And along my curvy body is a black dress that reaches my lower thighs, clutching my body in a way that was elegant but feminine. The top of the dress ran straight across my chest, then at the top of my waist it tightened to the curves. I had placed on a pair of simple black heels, that shone as a mirror in the white light.
A head taller than the other boys, it was Mick that was sent in to buy the booze. The others congregated around the corner to wait for their new group member to get the goods. Despite being fourteen he had the height of a man; which combined with the muscles of a competitive swimmer and some intentionally left stubble to give him a chance of success. But should he fail the others would simply disown him, let him take the fall. For them it was win-win. Either they got drunk or that tall swot got what was coming to him.
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.
He's so much younger than I had expected. He has that grown-up choir boy look except the tattoos that swirl above the neckline of his light shirt. He's got the same floppy blonde hair as Mike but his eyes aren't brown, possibly green, but I don't want to stare long enough to find out. "Lucy?"
My mouth is almost too dry to speak. I nod like an idiot and then croak out "Yeah, Joel?"
"Get in, we've got a lot of road to cover."
Now that I'm next to him it's far easier to observe him discreetly, as he drives it's natural for me to look his way while we talk and for him to keep his eyes on the traffic. He's tall, north of six foot I'd say and he must play some kind of sport or have a manual job. I toy with the idea of asking more but stop myself short. I'm in love with Mike and this is just some jock giving me a ride for gas money. When the small talk peters out I train my eyes to the scenery ignoring his cologne. Why does he have to smell that way? I don't need more confusion...
In the winter time Jason looked just like any other guy walking down the street in his jeans and duffle coat. There was something a little hippy-ish about him, from the way he moved to his slightly long hair and coarse beard. He looked for all the world like he was walking to his own beat, literally, like there was music playing in his head. But come summer when he stripped off to a tight t-shirt and bermuda shorts his muscles popped right out. Suddenly the girls heads would turn. In his layers he was no-one and without them he was someone. He always returned a smile when he caught an admiring glance, but his heart had long been taken. He gave it away to a girl that fell for him in the winter time; and he kept her love sacred.
Her eyes collected and bore tragically every wrongdoing that had been poured upon her, the lips smiled but those eyes ceased to be a part of this world.
There was a distinct resemblance between uncle and nephew. Merritt Hughes looked as though he might be Bob’s older brother. He was well built, about five feet eight inches tall, and usually tipped the scales at 160 pounds, but there was no fat on his well conditioned body. His hair was a dull brown, but the keenness of his eyes made up for whatever coloring was lacking in his hair.
Bob was taller than his uncle and would outweigh him ten pounds. His hair was light and his pleasant blue eyes were alert to everything that was going on. Both had rather large and definite noses, and Bob often chided his uncle on that family trait.
Impey Barbicane was a man of forty years of age, calm, cold, austere; of a singularly serious and self-contained demeanour, punctual as a chronometer, of imperturbable temper and immovable character; by no means chivalrous, yet adventurous withal, and always bringing practical ideas to bear upon the very rashest enterprises; an essentially New-Englander, a Northern colonist, a descendant of the old anti-Stuart Roundheads, and the implacable enemy of the gentlemen of the South, those ancient Cavaliers of the mother-country. In a word, he was a Yankee to the backbone.
Found in From the Earth to the Moon, Direct in Ninety-Seven Hours and Twenty Minutes: and a Trip Round It, authored by .
He was a tall fellow, lean as a greyhound, flat-flanked, in color neither dark nor fair. His eyes were deep-set and looked out from a face that was burned to the color of a brick. His nose was straight and large, cheeks well hollowed; the face would have been stern but for the humor that lurked about the mouth.
Gleason was the sort of Westerner usually described as breezy. He was on intimate terms with everybody, whether everybody reciprocated or not. Not a large man, not a young man, he possessed a restless vitality, a wiry energy that gave him an effect of youth. About forty, he was nearer the age of Doctor Davenport than the others, who were all in their earliest thirties.
The speaker was a man of about forty years, a little above the medium height, of well-knit frame, of a sanguine complexion. His bushy brows, shaded pensive eyes, that one would look for in a poet or a dreamer rather than in a soldier, yet a soldier, Cathal, son of Rory, was, and one of the guards of Cobhthach Cael, the usurper, who reigned over Leinster;
George Brentwood was a blond young man of thirty-four or thirty-five, with brown hair, full reddish beard, shrewdish blue eyes, a robust frame, and a general air of negligent repose.
Found in The Heart of the White Mountains, Their Legend and Scenery, authored by .
Gwendolen was fair almost to the extreme of golden blondness. Her features were small and perfectly related; her nose deliciously interrogative at the tip. Her brows and lashes, drawn in a darker hue, gave touches of character and distinction. She was very slender, erect, and was poised as though she grew in the wind.
He came of a race of hillmen, accustomed to scaling forbidding crags, and he was a man of unusual strength and agility. His only garment was a pair of short red silk breeks, and his sandals were slung to his back, out of his way, as were his sword and dagger.The man was powerfully built, supple as a panther. His skin was bronzed by the sun, his square-cut black mane confined by a silver band about his temples.
The creases on Dr. Bird's high forehead had grown deeper and deeper as Carnes had told his story, but now they suddenly disappeared, and he jumped to his feet with a boyish grin.
On a very wet evening in June a young man in a high dogcart was driving up the glen. A deer-stalker's cap was tied down over his ears, and the collar of a great white waterproof defended his neck. A cheerful bronzed face was shadowed by the peak of his cap, and two very keen grey eyes peered out into the mist.
They were dangerous-looking men, thirty of them in all, armed to the teeth. They looked like unscrupulous fellows who would hesitate at no desperate deed. Some of them had bad records, and yet they had served Frank Merriwell faithfully in guarding his mine, the Queen Mystery, against those who tried to wrest it from him by force and fraud.
Denry came unceremoniously in, smiling gaily and benevolently, with his bright, optimistic face under his fair brown hair. He had large and good teeth.
It was hard to judge Jeff Rand's age from his appearance; he was certainly over thirty and considerably under fifty. He looked hard and fit, like a man who could be a serviceable friend or a particularly unpleasant enemy.
He saw the shock register on my face before I could hide it. A small smile played on his lips, I guess he gets that a lot. It wasn't what he said though, his words were like vanilla pudding, sweet in their ordinary sort of way, it was the richness of his tones – luxurious and warm. He must be a baritone in church. I'm glad I saw him before I heard his voice, I'd never have put the two of them together otherwise. I bet he gets that a lot, clients walking in and looking for a bigger guy. Not that he's unusually tiny, its just that if I bought him a sweater it would be a small and still fit generously.
There was something puzzling in the man's gait, enough to send my hand to my holstered pistol just in case. It was like something was weighing him down on one side and his muscles were struggling to compensate for his lack of balance.