Mannequin - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The mannequin stared back at Saskia, thin and white. Size 00, no boobs and a caucasian face. She glanced down at her body, only fifteen and already a size eight with a C cup. She sighed. She could diet, throw her lunch in the trash everyday - Mom would never know. She could take breakfast "on the run," leaving with a mouthful and then feeding the rest to the ducks en-route to school. Dinner was dinner though, else she'd have to confess it. Weekends would be tricky; lots of family meals, lots of cooking smells and visiting grandparents, uncles, aunts and friends. Difficult. She eyed the mannequin again. She was going to look like that, except still brown of course. Then her friends would be jealous, the boys would chase her and she could post the new pics online.
In the shadowy gloom of the old warehouse there is a silhouetted figure, thin and unmoving. I crouch against the tin walls taking in shallow breaths, careful not to make a sound. After a few minutes my curiosity is peaked. No-one can be that still, not even me. Even so, I slide around in the shadows until I'm closer. Now that the figure is feet away I see that it is utterly white, even the eyes and it's stillness is rock-like, inhuman. I can breathe freely now, it's just a mannequin; one of those dummies from the stores. I creep out and stand face to face with it, I almost laugh. It's plastic, cold to the touch and it wobbles even with a slight poke. Then my eyes fall to the skinny arm, it wears a blue armband. Odd. I don't like odd things, it never means anything good. But when I turn there is a new figure, leaning against the exit, tall and muscular, male without a doubt. Then the silence is shattered by a crunch that can only come from an apple. No-one has these things anymore.
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by .
The broken body of the mannequin lay limp on the cold ground. Emptiness oozed out of it's shattered posture. Its cold rotten eyes stared into the cold abyss of infinite sadness. Days flashed by, as it icily observed humans walk by. Its hand, detached from its arm, would never hold another. Its chest, empty and dead with no heart, no heart to feel emotion. So the lonely mannequin lay there day by day and slowly whittled itself away, until their was nothing left but the smell of loneliness.
The Mannequin was one of those white dolls you see in the shop window of a clothing store, it had the ubiquitous male model look with a Caucasian face and defined pecs. But here in the forest it looked eerie under the moonlight. We dressed it in old clothes and put a wig on it's bald head, then hung it from a nearby tree to give the morning joggers a fright.
The male mannequins were serious, like a firefighter about to enter a blaze, a carbon copy of stoicism. The female forms were smiling with hands on slim hips jutted to one side. Lara let her hand glide over the cold plastic limbs, pondering who the moulds for such forms were. The girl was a freakishly thin waif and the male lean through athletics.
The black mannequins had all the wrong bone structure, like they'd just poured deep brown dye in and kept the same mould as for the caucasians.
The mannequins were headless. They stood in the shop window in cheeky poses that made the imagery all the more bizarre. It looked like a fun outing for the inconveniently decapitated, determined to carry on regardless.
It was a Scooby-Doo plan that just might work. Everyone stood between the mannequins in similar poses as still as they could, stealing the hats from the plastic heads to disguise their hair. Each of them breathed as shallowly as they could, heads fixedly staring out onto the dark street.