walking - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
I saw the way the woman walked, shoulders back, yet eyes frequently checking her own appearance; it was as if she felt superior and insecure all at once, perhaps that's the emotional optimum in a shallow society. I prefer the way our Maya is, she swaggers, a sort of free-style motion that says she's real happy with who she is, eyes on the sky, the trees and the birds, music in her soul as much as her ears.
Each year I wear the same shoes just for this journey. Once white they are now rusty brown with dust and the soles are as worn as my own. The laces trail on the ground, over-long as they are and frayed like some old goat-tether. With each step I watch the lace flop in its random pattern, random and predictable at the same time. I alter each footfall just a little to watch the effect, anything to not think about where I'm heading, where I will be when there are no more steps to take... I'm sure behind me are soft prints in the dust, slight movements of grit and stone that prove I am really here on this path... but I walk this path every night when I close my eyes and part of me thinks I am still in my bed with the regular chores waiting for me – fetch the water, grind the grains, bake the bread. The smells are making it real though, this dust has an aroma of its own and it transports me back to childhood so fast I think if I do look back the imprints of my slow steps will be too small for the adult I am now and too light for the woman I have become.
I watched my feet take steps across the glossy tiles, my dusty canvas sneakers next to the shined pointed-toe leather shoes of passing students.
He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther
She walked like someone who'd been in some armed service or other, there was a marching quality to it.
He glided like a waiter in a five star restaurant and his footfalls made no sound at all.
He was walking like his shoes were too tight, making short little strutting steps like a clockwork soldier.
She was walking unusually slowly, almost robotically, as if her brain was struggling to tell each foot to take the next step. It was as if she were in a stupor; like someone under hypnosis in one of those scooby-doo cartoons.
He had a way of walking that made him seem perpetually in a hurry. His steps weren't long but they were rapid. Like a speed-walker without that odd twisting motion they make.
He had an odd gait. It was slightly lurching as he went, perhaps he was leaning too far forwards, it was hard to tell. It had the effect of making him stand out in a crowd, and not in a good way.
Suddenly tenser than a tiger who stalks his prey, Conan glided deeper into the thicket
I trudged along the pavement at a sedate pace, my mind focused on the gentle footsteps that seemed to echo throughout the desolate street.