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How would the author describe you?

Jericho Z. Barrons

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Oct 12, 2017
If you were a character in a novel, how would the author describe you?

Not just your appearance but the way you speak, how you express different emotions, how you hold yourself.
 
Mauve was a contradiction wrapped in flesh — a paradox for all to see. A whirlwind of chaos in a tiny package. An imp that could, and would find a person’s weakness to use in case of the most immediate and dire emergency: boredom. They were shameless in that pursuit; yet had no ambition to seek it out. For they had luck on their side, and merely had to stand around looking cute. Then, when something moved, all they had to do was shoot.
A restless soul, by nature, Mauve wandered through life with no particular goal, and would watch as others went about their business. It seemed like fun when they showed interest, but Mauve was happiest there on the sideline. An apparition that took delight in another’s excitement, and would move along with a serene smile.
If only it were a gentle Spring day with a slight chill, and a warm sun. Or perhaps, a crisp, clean, and fragrant Autumn afternoon. Mauve would sacrifice their senses for a cooler day, as they sat with their legs sprawled out in the shade. Their back against the tree as they plunged the raspberry creamsicle into their chasm of a mouth, greedily, as their eyes scanned the park. They needed something to occupy their wild, and crazed mind. Keep the darker, unpleasant thoughts at bay. Perhaps, a change of thought would help to repress the memories that boiled up with those thoughts, too. How wonderful that would be!
There was plenty of activity going on, but nothing that could keep Mauve’s mind attached for long. Not until the small gaggle of women passed. Their bellies taut and round like lush fruit. Mauve barely kept it together as they shuffled, waddled, and shimmied to a beautifully open spot where they threw down their mats, blankets, and cushions. ‘Ooh, maybe this isn’t such a bad day to be out.’
The women were beautiful, and Mauve was curious about them. Envied them, and wished to be a fly or better yet, invisible. Mauve would be able to get close, and learn about them. What their journey was like, and why they chose it.
A pair of large dogs crossed Mauve’s sight, and stole their attention away. Mauve’s blue eyes followed the freshly groomed dogs as they played, and all Mauve wanted was to reach out to touch their fur. See what it felt like, and snuggle into it, despite the unbearable heat. It didn’t matter if Mauve’s hair was slick and oily from the sweat that dripped from them. If it meant that they could snuggle up to a big, sweet dog, then it would be worth it.
 
Her full lips beckoned and her eyes twinkled with secret mirth, but behind them lurked something both hard and fragile, an untold tale of strength born of heartbreak and resilience crafted by desperation. As with all people, she was a walking contradiction, a person capable of sacrificial love and ruthless selfishness. Yet it was her choices that defined her, that were etched in her upturned smile and husky voice lilting with authority. It was her voice that made him turn his head, paused him mid conversation. It clutched at him, as sticky strands of spider silk captures its prey, and it drew him in. His heart pounded as he listened, his senses tingled. He had to know her, had to meet the woman whose voice held the promise of heated nights and lazy mornings, rumpled sheets, smooth bourbon, satisfied smiles.
 
She was the type of female you don't waste a second glance on, no flash or bang. A pal to joke around with, bail you out of an awkward situation. But later you have a nagging sense of 'now why am I thinking of her?'
 
If you were a character in a novel, how would the author describe you?

Not just your appearance but the way you speak, how you express different emotions, how you hold yourself.
He was old with a resting pissed off face and a sarcastic sense of humour. His attitude to people was friendly enough but always guarded.
 
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