Half of being a good writer is grammar, and the other half is a healthy mix of patience and insanity. Welcome to my collection of thoughts, the product of sitting in a cozy blanket typing while rain pours outside. Not really, but I wish it was.
15 years old, writer of fiction and fantasy and anything mildly imaginative. I love the galaxy (a bit too much) and big questions that make you think and small things that don't usually stand out, and writing is about them is a passion of mine.
Outside of writing, I'm an artist in both traditional and digital mediums.
Written By: Winter Galaxy
April 8, 2015
The computer's soft light shone in her face. The scrolling bar on the side of the page traveled up and down, the whole page doing the same. Homework, projects, school, work, play, more work, routine. She knew she was supposed to be reading, reading the page, but she couldn't bring herself to do that. Research was so real, it left no room for imagination, just concrete facts that never changed until the latest breakthrough.
"The Average Life of a Renaissance Royal"
Bold black text sat at the top of the page, words sat below. Simple as that, but simplicity, as of now, was of no interest to the girl. Sounds from outside drifted through the door, through the window, the birds and rustling wind providing more of an ambiance to red leaves that fell from bare branches and covered the world in warm colors. Somewhere in the house, the grandfather clock rythymically went Tick, tick, tick...
She left the office chair spinning in its place, unoccupied. Her bare feet lead her to the door, a plain, white door that stood tall with its painted chipped from the ages. The door opened for her, behind it, a large tree. Nothing but a tree, standing tall in a realm of nothing. Whiteness all around except for this oak, with its leaves shimmering from a healthy green to red and drifting off, down, out of existence. It was just her. Alone. The oak sighed and creaked, warping around with what her mind commanded it. The leaves changed with the seasons, the trunk growing and inching taller and taller. Roots stretched and hung and dirt crumbled and fell as the wind pushed weightless objects around, which were thousands of pounds as at the same time, the wind was not there. But it was. A leaf fell into her hand, written on with blue ink, that might have come from a normal pen that lie on the ground. But the pen, of course, didn’t exist, unless she commanded it to, and the words revealed themselves as the girl imagined it, the pen, the pen that wasn’t so normal after all, as nothing was. The words that seemed to shift on the leaf, or rather was shifting on the leaf, pulled itself from incessant scribbles, out into something readable. “You have so many secrets…”
And the girl was beautiful in the realm of nothing, in the realm of everything. Darkness swallowed the tree, it swallowed her, a blinding darkness in which nothing could be seen. She looked up and imagined, and what imagined became real, it became a sky, and the sky became a galaxy. Stars rippled and fell as elegant flashes of light, shooting stars, among swirling purple and blue and red clusters of color, of white shimmering stars, of a universe, of possibility. She reached out and caught one in her hand, and when she opened it, it was there in her hand, a star, a -
“Get working, Raina.” Someone was tapping her shoulder, a rhythm that seemed to have been carrying on for a while. A sigh escaped her lips, the bright glare of the monitor resting on her face. Back to reality...
I know this piece doesn't have much of a storyline, and I didn't really want it to. I wanted it to reflect the girl's imagination and what she's thinking and show a daydreamer's own little world revealed into words. It's a little far from my style, but to capture something so dream-like and unstable, I feel like it calls for something different.