woman - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Sarah thought for a moment, clearly he felt awkward around her, "Look, Maverick, think of me as a human with different plumbing if that helps you understand me. I'm the same as you in every other way."
It was with you that my psychology first felt equal as a human being, as someone of intelligence and self worth. It's so very hard to for a woman to acquire that even in this age of so-called equality. In our fairytales and so many stories, as a girl, you are psychologically an annex of a father, a "prince" or other male figure. English makes it a challenge too, for we are "wo-man," and "fe-male," we are the "variation" and not worthy in our own right of a title. We are a "gift to men" rather than vice versa. We are so often defined by what we give others rather than as worthy in our own right as individuals - often as good wives, mothers and daughters. This type of belonging is only healthful when there is also capability for psychological and physical independence if required. Perhaps "lady" is a better word, yet that too comes with the burden of expectations rooted in an era of women as property. "Lady" also sounds similar to "laddie" - again sounding as if we are an annex of men, the variation. We don't call boys, "ungirls" - the mode of reference would be unhealthy. Women shouldn't have to battle to recover the kind of independence required for real psychological health and wisdom, to have society see us simply as human. We should be free to express our gender on our own terms, to find many divergent and beautiful ways to express ourselves and our sexuality. Perhaps new words and better role models would help.
Anyway, I went off on a tangent again, how very me! But on the day we met one other you unlocked that cage called "woman" and handed me my own keys. I guess all it took was for someone I respect to show me equal respect. I can't believe its taken so long to meet someone like you. So now, I'm free to sit next to you, to stay as a friend, to become whatever we want to become. I think the uncomfortable truth is, we can only have true loving bonds when we are free to walk away. Isn't it "who holds the door key" the distinction between a home and a prison?
Elizabeth looked at herself in the mirror. Her porcelain skin was ashen, almost anemic; a cold sweat glistened on her forehead and her recessed cheeks; the moss of her eyes had turned into a leaf that was desperately trying to cling onto the last bit of its chlorophyll, its life. She had hair so black against skin so white and it made a contrast that only served to make the girl look all the more ghostly, all the more haunting; her lips that were once pink and soft, were now chapped and bleeding. She looked tired, sick.
Elizabeth wiped her tear stained cheeks and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remove the image of herself from her mind. Her hand reached for her makeup and she applied it all over her face slowly and carefully, as if this way of doing things was going to hide her sallow complexion better. After evening out her skin with porcelain foundation and getting rid of the garish purple circles under her eyes, Elizabeth applied her dark eyeshadow, eyeliner and mascara to bring out whatever colour remained in her green eyes. She finished with a layer of lipstick the colour of blood. Elizabeth looked almost normal. She almost looked like Snow White with her skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood and hair as black as ebony.
The woman on the corner was dressed like any other urban Vancouverite. She was casual, but smartly dressed in jeans, a hipster jacket and a neck scarf. Her face was made up, but not over done and her long black hair was pulled back into a pony-tail. Yet somehow Mac was drawn to watch her. There was something in the way she held herself, as if unsure of where her limbs should be in order to appear naturally placed. Whereas the average person just walked along, barely aware of their surroundings, on autopilot just as much as those who commuted by car- her eyes moved quickly over everything in front, to the sides and ever few minutes behind also. In those brief moments she was looking his way he was struck by how protuberant her eyes were and the prominence of her cheekbones, gaunt really. And then there was the little brief case that dangled at her side, small but most certainly locked. Mac was debating whether to take a closer look or not when he caught a glint of silver at her wrist,
He had spotted her from the window. She sat in one of the great, big wicker chairs on the porch, legs neatly tucked under her and hidden from sight. Today her hair was woven into a braid, nothing fancy, just to keep the sweat out of her eyes. The heat had driven her from the house, armed with nothing more than a book and a yearning lust for just a couple degrees cooler that a passing breeze might provide. He could see the floaters, those few long, elegant strands of hair she always kept at bay with a hand as she read. The ones that always made him smile and roll his eyes and think, “Just get a damn haircut already.” Her expression was so far away, a serenity that never failed to put the young man at ease. How delicately her eyes seemed to follow those pages. How elegantly her fingers would stroke the words. When she finally caught him staring, he'd scuttle away, rosy cheeks and all, lie when she later asked what he had been so keenly staring at.
Amy slumped in her favourite armchair and threw her badge on the table. There was something so great about home after the testosterone filled office. Her gun pressed into her leg and she reached to bring it out, lay it on the table too, next to the white orchid her mother had brought over last Tuesday. Her eyes settled on it for a moment. Beautiful. Fragile. Perhaps she should take it to work, it would be nice to have it there. She was senior now, the other agents could scoff all they want. Her body washed cold as she felt the pager buzz in her blazer pocket. That meant another homicide to deal with instead of a warm bed and soft duvet. Couldn't the fine folks of the city quit killing each other for a night? After a quick call in she was in her still warm car, cruising down-town to the scene.
The woman that walked in could have graced any billboard or magazine cover, but she was better than those two dimensional photoshopped models. Somehow her imperfections made her perfect. There was a shyness to her, hesitation in her body movements and a softness in her voice. Her cream suit had a tailored look that was bold against her dark skin, but I could already see her in jeans and a t-shirt, feet up on the couch and painting her nails. She was right there, only feet away, but in her understated glamour she might as well be on the television or a girl in a pop video. So I gathered up my things to go, I'd never see her again, but that was alright. She didn't need a plain guy like me. In that moment my eyes were down on the table that's when the chaos began...
A woman of older age spoke just now. She was among a crowd of respectable women, conversing loudly, including the Mayor’s wife who wore the fanciest hat of them all; they carry the same expression, the pleasure of gossiping. Words were slipping from their big, lousy mouths and they were laughing like pigs in the middle of the night streets.
Her eyes, like the indigo ocean, were pools of iridescent blue, sculpted upon her creamy face like dazzling jewels. Strands of molten gold tumbled out of her scalp, cascading down her back like a waterfall. Cherry lips, crystal white teeth: she truly was a beautiful sight to behold.
I gripped my phone in my left hand, tapping my polished fingernails against the smooth screen. I glanced down at them. They were midnight black with glitter at the tips the color of clear ocean water. I did them that morning to match my outfit, a strapless cocktail dress made of a silky black fabric. It shimmered the same color of my nail polish if the light hit it a certain way. My hazelnut hair fell in perfect curls on my olive shoulders and my soft, hazel eyes glanced around, waiting for him. My heels were too tall and my dress was too short; I was freezing outside in the cold.
Yet, a more lovely sight awaited him. There sat petite Sapphira. Her soft, ivory shoulders were exposed and her cherry-red curls fell down her back. Her lips were carefully tinted red and her skin was flawless. Her silver eyes shone like twin moons in the grand dining hall. She wore a form fitting dress of lacey periwinkle. He plumped himself down onto the chair’s thick velvet cushion.
Miss Elizabeth Sawyer was a lady of--her age does not matter. She was tall and very slight, her hair was gray, and her eyes were the bulging, staring kind that always seemed about to jump from their sockets, caused in some degree, perhaps, by the black-rimmed eye-glasses secured by a heavy cord which she constantly wore. She had the reputation of being very intellectual. The very person, Mrs. Tweedie thought, to shine in a woman's club.
She promptly ignored his hand, standing up by herself. Jack could scarcely breathe as he watched her brush snow from her silky hair, which cascaded in lustrous waves down to her waist. Her skin was soft and pale, flawless. Her eyes seemed to have gotten brighter, more brilliant. They sparkled in the sunlight like a pair of luminescent diamonds, radiant and beautiful. Her cheeks were slightly pink. Jack assumed it was from the cold. She brushed a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, gently brushing her high cheekbones as she did so. Her perfectly-shaped lips were a beautiful rose bud pink. Jack saw tiny flecks on snow on her long dark lashes, framing her pretty forget-me-not blue eyes. She arched a slender brow on him and put her petite hands on her cute hips. She’d matured… nicely. She was beautiful before, but… wow. She looked ethereal, like some angel fallen from the celestial heavens.
Annaya sat, the wind blowing her long blown tresses out. She loves the wind; it calls to her, whispering things big and small. She gazes out, at the dark brooding forest, but to in her eyes she sees only peace and security in that forest. All who see her eyes know that she sees things, things that no one else can. Her dark blue orbs speak of horror and peace, turmoil and joy, days to come and days already past. Her bold forehead is creased from days of sorrow when depression weighed heavily on her soul. Though not considered pretty by standard terms, something about her is attractive. Knowledge that only comes through much sorrow and pain shines in her eyes. Though small in body, she is fierce in spirit.