Owl avvie1 copy 14

Winter Galaxy

United States

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.

Message from Writer

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.

Of Colors and False Hues

November 14, 2015

    We were the misfits. Those eccentric colorful ones who were rejected by the people who worshipped black and white.
Each of us were found as wanderers, lost in our minds. We had mixed origins, mixed opinions, and mixed appearances, but we moved as one. We were a nation. If counted, our numbers may leave us to be considered only a tribe, but the complexity of our society that hid under the top layer of chaos would fool most observers into believing us a simple folk. Just like themselves, but a bit different and therefore frowned upon. Those observers never stayed long. Nothing profound popped out at them, and so they moved on.
    They were always wrong about us, thankfully.
    Behind the worn cement walls, entangled in ivy and poisoned with a heavy air of post-apocalyptic pollution, we possessed something of the future. We all did. It pulsed and flickered and grew inside of us, infecting us and feeding on us. Imagine that! The freaks, owning what most would kill for if they could understand it. If you knew us well, you wouldn't be surprised.
It was a virus, but it was a gift. It floated in the air and we breathed it in, and we breathed it out. It infested us, it thrived in us, it took over our being and dominated the very center of our culture.
    It was humanity.
    No one knew what it could do.


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