White Beard Novels & Stories

And he saw me. He was a tall man. Old, with a beard the color of untainted snow. His hair was salt and peppered, dreading over his shoulders and down his back. He stood there like a still river, leaning against the cane in his hand. He was smoking a pipe that looked worn and used, the smoke dancing through the holes in his straw hat. I looked around, hoping someone else saw what I was seeing, but when I realized that this "vision" was personalized, I stared in shock. In awe.

He knew that she was having such a wicked idea in her mind and he definitely did not want her to be a single mother. “How many in the family will still actually abide by the house rules? Come on, Grandpa. The world now has changed.” As Heather spoke, she reached out her hand to touch his white beard. Lately, he had been fond of growing out his beard and it had gradually grown very long. Ever since he had grown his beard, his face had become kinder. Heather would always touch it as she could not help it, acting like a cheeky, naughty little kid the whole while.

– The man was sitting cross legged in front of him, with his red eyes and his white hair, with the appearance of a 60 year old man, even though he was over 2 thousand years old, he was muscular, he had a good physical conditioning. Joseph was the wet dream of every fiery gay man and woman, a crown of smooth, well-kept skin, no signs of age, just white hair, he was muscular, strong and defined, his muscles were defined and not hidden in the slightest. over the clothes, a man with white fur on his arms and chest, a real polar bear, an albino with red eyes.

A Shaman! He was older, his hair a wild cascade of gray, his beard a tangled mess of unkempt strands. A sharp, pointed mustache lent his face a sinister, aristocratic edge despite the rags he wore. His garments were strange, marked with ancient symbols and hand-painted patterns that whispered of forgotten, macabre rituals. He looked ancient, but I knew better than to trust appearances. Shamans wore age like a mask, their shabby exteriors concealing a power that ignored time.

Then, for a moment, the alcohol haze parted just enough for me to get a clearer look at him. He was tall — easily over six feet — with a powerful, broad-shouldered build that spoke of quiet strength rather than gym vanity. Late forties, maybe early fifties. Long white hair tied back in a loose, effortless ponytail, a few strands framing his face. A thick white beard, neatly trimmed but still rugged. And a thin, faded scar running along the side of his left eye, giving him a dangerous, lived-in edge. He looked like a man who had seen storms and walked out the other side. *Damn.* Even through the drunken fog, one thought cut through clearly.

An elderly man pushed his way through the cluster of agitated voices, stepping into the center of the yard with slow, deliberate authority. His head was crowned with thick gray hair, and a full beard of matching silver covered his jaw. As he moved, the noise around him dropped immediately. People stepped back, making room for him without a word.

The palm trees gently swayed to the tune of the light breeze, mimicking the soothing melody of Beyoncé's Brown skin girl blaring through the stereo of a car. A man in his mid sixties was resting against a Hummer jeep, rearranging the folds of his white agbada. The man fiddled with the red coral beads around his wrists, waiting impatiently for someone. He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and dabbed at the beads of sweat that had gathered on his thick moustache. The old man looked like one of those oil and gas chiefs, infamous for their white attires and ever prominent pot-bellies.

Three towering men stood there; they were old, yet their long white hair, sweeping silver beard, and broad shoulders gave them the appearance of an ancient legend's wise ruler. Their eyes were set like coals that could suddenly burst into fire in their ancient face beneath enormous snowy brows, and they have the identical visage.

Said a sore voice and someone patted on Silver's shoulder from behind. “A-ah!” Silver jumped and looked behind. “Where did you come from? You startled me.” Silver looked at the old man. He had long powder-white hair and beard. His eyes were watery and face seemed energetic but was wrinkled and faded. Fingers were crooked and twisted with long nails, polished black. His back was slightly bent and he couldn't walk steadily. He looked like an evil wizard from his dreams that he used to have. Even his laugh was malicious.

As I turn the corner, I bump into someone. I begin to apologize but stop midsentence as I look up at the person I walked into. This man is the definition of a silver fox. His dirty blond hair was streaking with strands of silver, and his surprisingly red beard also had strands of silver weaved throughout it. His deep blue eyes were crinkled, making me wonder if he’d lived a life full of laughter or one full of anger. For a man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties, he was surprisingly fit. His chest was broad, and his blue dress shirt looked like it would bust open if he flexed his arms. If I’d met him before I was a mated woman, I would gladly call him daddy.