shouting - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
There was something in that shout, a pain behind it. Lee watched. He watched Dean's eyes. Then he knew. The anger was nothing but a shield for pain, like a cornered soldier randomly throwing out grenades, scared for his life, lonely, desperate. He breathed in real slow. What if nothing blew up? What if there were no consequences? Wouldn't Dean have to calm down? Wouldn't the shield clatter to the ground and let the pain tumble out?
When the pressure of my day is inside me, not like a tangled knot but like a ticking bomb, I need to let it explode somewhere safe. I need to go somewhere it can't do lasting damage - and that's why I have Casey. That's why he has me. When I need to vent I call him up and he knows what's coming. It isn't an exchange, well, not in the same session. I get to yell my fuckin' lungs out and be a vengeful, crass, arse-hole of fury and he sips his beer and nods in the right places. Only when I pick up my pint does he ask me if I'm ready for his perspective and if I am I'll keep drinking, otherwise the shouting starts again. His job is to tell me how he thinks the other side likely felt in my stories, what fears and insecurities may have motivated them, tone me down rather than egg me on. Then I can go back home and talk things through. Sometimes Casey is right, sometimes he's way off, but I can't talk to my wife when I need to explode, she doesn't deserve that. Casey's just the same, he calls me, I go. He vents, I listen. Maybe that's why I'm still happily married and Casey is too. I don't know, it works for us. We don't gossip, no-one knows his secrets or mine. We love our wives, our kids, I dunno, sometimes just getting that rage our is the best thing I can do. It probably comes mostly from work anyway, but I can't go yellin' at the boss now can I?
The shouting was a violence in the air, a way to take the anger from Martin and transfer the tension in Claire. He didn't just raise his voice, his muscles tensed and he got right in close for maximum impact. After that she would give in, soothe him, mother him, give him whatever would keep the peace.
Shouting rent the air. What was once peaceful became polluted with rage. Everyone tensed. When Tim got going there was no escape, leaving only made his ire worse, longer lasting.
Paul was a powder keg, one spark and the shouting began, spit flying from his lips. In that moment of anger he'd say anything, whatever was most hurtful, whatever would give him the most satisfying victory.
Passersby glanced at number 28 Ash Street, drawn with curiosity to the shouts from within. It wasn't merely a raised voice, there was a seething behind it.
If the shouts were visible they'd be reaching over the air, strangling the life from Keira. As the words got more bitter it would be possible to see why she gasped for breath.
Through the closed door came raised voices, each to and fro of the verbal fight getting more shrill, more severe. Tabitha withdrew her hand from the handle and crept backwards.
Every breath felt like his last, every breath made him ache for it to be the last. His cry’s of help went unnoticed, contained by the walls of his body. His screams echoed in his head filling the silence with burning flames of self-loathing. He did this to himself, he’s the one who danced with the devil bidding on his heart. It was all his fault, what was he thinking playing with fire? Didn’t he know he was going to burn? Didn’t he know gasoline runs in his veins? All he needed was a flame, a touch of fire and he’ll light up like a Christmas tree. Now, look at him, nothing but ashes on the ground, dirt!