stranger - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Only in an atomised society could the word for a person you are yet to meet be "stranger," their label in your thoughts having its roots in the word "strange" with that slight emotional predisposition toward rejection. There are cultures that have no such word because people they haven't met yet are assumed to be friends, the emotional predisposition toward the positive and acceptance. So how about we change the word? What could it be?
This beautiful and positive stranger, he strangled the anger and suffocated the hate. In its place love blossomed as if he were a saint and an angel, this stranded stranger I took into my home.
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...
There's a man sitting beside Elizabeth. He's been sitting there for several minutes; she saw him as a brownish blur to the left, registered the shift as he crossed and uncrossed his legs. Movement like rustlings in a hedge, furtive, almost not there. She turns her head, slightly, briefly, to look at him. He's wearing a brown topcoat, a little too small for him - it must pinch under the arms - and a brown hat. His eyes shine at her, brown also and small, like raisins. His hands, gloveless, dark hair on the knuckles, rest on the thick suitcase he holds across his lap.
There is a castle over the way, beyond the river that divides the county. Before you clear the woodland the fortress dogs will bay to announce your coming. Should you be foolish enough to travel by night they will send huntsmen to ensure your quest ends before dawn. Delay until you are blessed by the rays of the English morning and the guards will at least grant you the right to speak. After that, my traveling friend, your guess is as good as mine. We keep to ourselves in these parts and them folk over there are no our kin. These are suspicious times and you my dear are stranger than most.
He's the one with the tired look on his face drinking coffee by the window, looking out into the rain, and apologising to people trying to skim past his guitar leaning up on the table.
He's tired, because when he was younger, he believed that you existed, that there was someone for everyone, that he would just Know.
He's tired, because he's not sure anymore. Maybe he should have stayed with that last girl, she was nice, and funny sometimes.
The world is terrible, because even though you can see him, you need an excuse to walk over there, and because there isn't one in the world thats good enough, you wont.
That unblinking, melancholy look on his honey coloured face is the most beautiful thing you can remember seeing, it calms you, along with the sound of the rain on the roof, and it almost seems a crime to breathe in case it all ends.
Then he gets up to leave, and as he does, he nearly knocks over a waitress, and you see him smile at her that goes through to his eyes. Its apologetic and Genuine, and she falls in love with him, you see it happen.
He see's it happen. She keeps moving.
He has to pull on his jacket, looking at the ground, and tie his black hair back at the nape of his neck, and you have no idea that all the while, he is thinking that waitress seemed really nice, maybe funny sometimes, but as much as he wants to, he cant give up the possibility that you exist, so he pays the bill and turns to leave.
As he walks past you, he nearly trips over your guitar leaning on the couch, and he looks right into you while you are apologising, his eyes are huge, and dark brown liquid and it feels like forever, and you are not even sure of what your mouth is saying because he has disconnected you, and he's looking for a reason to sit down, but because there is no reason in the world good enough, he can't.
So he shrugs. He touches the tip of your nose with his finger, taking an eyelash with him, and ducks out the door into the wet, running to his car.