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I've come to realise that I have something of a morbid fascination with the grotesque, the lurid and the unusual. The normal things vaguely exaggerated to become strange and slightly horrible. So, bearing in mind that I'm a horrible, horrible person, I've got a sort of hobby of describing, in properly caricaturised fashion, the normal grotesques I seen every day.
Today's are faces. And please keep in mind that I am a terrible person, and exaggerating things a bit.
She had a pretty enough face, save for an unfortunate nose. It was recessed a little into her face, and didn't curve outward, as noses typically do. Rather, it ran in a sheer vertical line down her face, pulling heavily on her brows so that she seemed to wear an expression of perpetually frowning disdain.
He had a weighty face. By that, I do not mean that it was fat, or even fleshy. It was simply that the bones of it had obviously been built to last, firm and heavy, and nature had seen fit to clothe them accordingly. It was not a big face, though it looked like it ought to be. Nor even an overdone face, although you might think so at first glance. It was simply, and rather immovably, there.
She only caught a glimpse of his profile, but it was arresting. What a forehead! Above the clear, bushy line of his eyebrows, it rose in gentle ridges where worry had scored deep lines into his skin, up to a rapidly receding hairline. It was like one of those hills you see, where the soil has begun to slump gently towards the base in those little rippled steps, a slow, gradual slide into despair.
She had an oddly disquieting face. Oh, it was normal enough, young and round, save that there was a dent, at the outer corner of each of her eyes, as if they were trying to curve back inside her head so that she might better see her own thoughts. It gave her a curiously elongated look, and it gave you the uncomfortable impression that there was more of her there than you could see, folded up inside her skull.
He had a weighty face. By that, I do not mean that it was fat, or even fleshy. It was simply that the bones of it had obviously been built to last, firm and heavy, and nature had seen fit to clothe them accordingly. It was not a big face, though it looked like it ought to be. Nor even an overdone face, although you might think so at first glance. It was simply, and rather immovably, there.
She only caught a glimpse of his profile, but it was arresting. What a forehead! Above the clear, bushy line of his eyebrows, it rose in gentle ridges where worry had scored deep lines into his skin, up to a rapidly receding hairline. It was like one of those hills you see, where the soil has begun to slump gently towards the base in those little rippled steps, a slow, gradual slide into despair.
She had an oddly disquieting face. Oh, it was normal enough, young and round, save that there was a dent, at the outer corner of each of her eyes, as if they were trying to curve back inside her head so that she might better see her own thoughts. It gave her a curiously elongated look, and it gave you the uncomfortable impression that there was more of her there than you could see, folded up inside her skull.
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