A great exercise when you have writer's block is to write descriptions of strangers. Mine tend to end up unflattering as hell but not everyone has the cold, sparkly beautiful skin of a killer.
Her stringy, listless hair hung in unkempt clusters around her face. Her eyes were dull behind thick-rimmed glasses that did nothing to lend her an appearance of intelligence. She wore only black- a t-shirt that was a tad too big to be flattering on her tiny frame, black pants that were shapeless and black platform boots that lacked any flair or eye-appeal. Her attention remained on the phne in her hands, where tales of her friends' day came in bursts of 100 characters.
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He discovered the soap dispenser to be empty. He stood for a moment with the piss-warm water running over his hands before he reached toward the next closest. He made eye-contact in the mirror with the bearded man grumpily washing his own hands. It was the most human interaction he'd had all week.
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A wide woman that waddled when she walked, with cod lips and eyes that bugged out like a pig's. She wore flower prints and knits and sandals, even in the winter.
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The woman tucked away in the corner of the bar looked all at once bored with her computer and like her attention would not stray from it. Her bangs were cut high on her forehead in a straight line. Her hair was styled in a bob that framed her face. At its longest, it rested against her chin, accentuating the length of her face in a manner that was not altogether flattering.
Her dark-framed glasses blended in with her black eyebrows, making her look as though she were scrunching her forehead, even though the skin remained china-smooth.
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