Random Descriptions

The following are random descriptions I have accrued over the years. They don't fit into any specific story or have any specific purpose other than that they might someday be useful. If you like them, please comment. If they confuse you, also please comment, and perhaps I can give some context. If they annoy you... Basically just please comment if it evokes any feeling at all.

The paper tiger sat on the table, reflected in its glossy shine. It was completely white, fangs agape, tail curved into the perfect expression of irritation. As I stared at it, I could imagine it jumping to life, pouncing on the smooth surface, roaring wildly.

She had strange eyes. One was bright, sharp and intelligent. The other was dull and muddled. At first I thought it was blind, but when I turned around to glance at her, I saw it turn slowly to me, her other eye still staring at the painting.

The poem was like a puzzle, an intricate little riddle I was dying to know the answer of. The words swam before my eyes, mischievously diving in and out of comprehension. Just when I thought I had it, the words would shift, swimming and slipping away from me – darting in their mischief.




I love his hands. They are like crabby beige spiders and when he types they twitch flowingly, long fingers stretching as a sleepy animal would at the end of each sentence.

She had no eyelashes. Instead, blue flames were tattooed on her eyelids. They flickered as she blinked, alive with her movements. Her eyebrows were thick and a luminous blue. Even her pale skin took on a soft tinge of the colour.

Description of "The Whisperer"

She had an affinity for the pronunciation of names. No matter what the language or dialect, her tongue snapped around its intricacies and held fast, until names blossomed from her lips like a red carpet. There was the croak of a sleepy frog in her susurrant “Mbembe”, the crack of a breaking bough in “Cormac”.

It was only her own name that flapped from her lips and fell, flaccid, to the floor. She did not speak it often in the village. In fact – she spoke it so seldom that her name was forgotten after some years. She fashioned a new one through hints and nudges, never speaking it until its being was formed through the tongues of others. They struggled, lips clawing over syllables, moulding them jaggedly until at once the name took off, exploded into the air like a spout of water. She caught it, and in her mouth the malleable sounds were softly smoothed into a gentle stream, a rush of water over cobblestones. 

She was The Whisperer.