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color me blind
There was a point to this story, but it has temporarily escaped the chronicler's mind. - So Long And Thanks for All the Fish by Douglas Adams |
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about the author
A female member of the homo sapiens species
(warm-blooded, omnivorous, currently alive) Diet includes walrus diarrhea, preserved portions of man-made worms cooked in boiling water and the outermost layer of flesh of eggs that have been incubated, raised, beheaded, plucked and fried in oil. Extremely unpredictable, high-five on sight. tagboard
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Design: doughnutcrazyIcon: morphine_kissed |
Okay I'm just in the mood to write crazy crap, so I shall do it here. The creature I made last time (that one that ate fear) was mistakenly called the child of fear, because I was having a writer's block at the time, so now it's officially child of words. Since it (genderless you see) was supposedly born from words anyway. And it seems pretty much like a child to me. You know when you're a kid, it's like you have bad eyesight. The colors are all blurred, and all you can see is the main colors, red orange yellow green blue indigo violet. However as you grow up, your eyesight gets better and you see all the different shades and whatnot that are also in those colors. And sometimes they spoil the whole picture, and you wish you had your bad eyesight back. But then, it can never be real again anyway. --- It was dawn. It came slowly over the horizon, with the graceful steps of a dancer. It held hands with the night and the afternoon as it circled around the sphere in an ancient dance that had gone on for millennia long past, until it had been forgotten and faded from the human mind, like a tree casting away its withered leaves. The air sang with the joy and glory of its coming; the leaves were tinted gold by the light of the bright, glowing heart of day. Unlike the moon, the eye of the night, it did not merely observe, but lit up the world for all. The dawn came, her robes of white and pale pink trailing behind her, her laughter heard in the creatures awakening from the slumber of the night. For those of light, dawn is a new beginning. For those who live in darkness, it was a warning. I saw dawn's coming. She ignored me, as she did anything else. But I knew she was kind and merciful to creatures like me; for her rays passed me by without doing any harm, and her light was gentle enough that I could still see. The afternoon was quite different. I would realize that later, and nearly too late. I turned and slid into the ground in front of a gravestone, sinking down to the ground till I was in a dark, rectangular space. It was a coffin. In it was a bundle of dead words, the parchment dried and cracked; the ink faded and peeling. Beside it, there were words that were not yet dead. They had not yet been brought to life. It was night when the words arrived. The night was ink black and bone white. It was not silver. But a man had been there. And me. The words in him were already fading. His footsteps were irregular and unsteady as he came. His hands held words, words pressed into parchment, bound together and told to behave. But they were words all the same. A mistake was made. By me. It sneered at me as I stood there, on that path that was not silver, looking at the man on the ground, the bound words dropped at my feet. His heart had stopped. His fear taunted me even as it faded away. I would not feed on it tonight. I had erased the words in him. Words that were yet to be written. A mistake. I picked up the words, hollow and wooden in their bindings. In the day the bundle of dead words were buried in the living earth. I sat beside them and opened the book. It was a thick, heavy volume. Words, confined between the pages, strained to be free. Words. My first glimpse of written words was a page filled to the very brim of them, as many words as could possibly fit, like puppets on a shelf. Words and words, flowing from the book like a neverending stream. But they parted, and they flowed around me. I reached out to the words. My hand did not feel them. There was nothing but the smoothness of bone white parchment, glowing in the darkness, framing the ink black of the words. I knew it then. A creature born of words, pieced together from a words so interwoven it was impossible to tell one from another; such a creature will never be able to know the hollowed, wooden words that lay so quietly on the parchment, so obedient to their masters. I would never know these words. All would ever know were the words that lived, and came and went as they pleased, that answered to none. The words in the ink black of the night, in the parchment of the moon, in the silver and the tombstones and the dawn and the humans and the world. And me. As turned the pages, feeling with my eyes the shapes of words that would never breathe, I caught sight of one, like a bright light in the darkness. Or a spot of ink black in a bone white parchment. wraith/noun [C] mainly literary A GHOST, SPECTRE, APPARITION The wraith is a being of power, controlled by a greater spirit to do the creatures will. These creatures are shadows, floating amongst our realm with no purpose but that of their masters. They feed on humans, their emotions and their own strength, without these they would cease to exist. Could a creature that preys on fear fear for itself? I knew this word, because it was this word that made me what I was. I felt the words around me, pressing into me like chains. I read them over and over again, in the darkness of the coffin, surrounded by the words of the living and the dead and the never-alive, and in front of me the ones that mattered most or did not matter at all. Okay, this is really quite crappy, and I have nothing to say. I just have to do something or my head will explode. Happy? References made to Macmillan dictionary, which pretty much pissed me off because it only had two words, 'a ghost' describing a wraith. More references made to dictionary.com, which pissed me off more by listing a whole bunch of wairth versions from books but however made me happy by listing one that I liked. I guess the english teacher would not like this, but I did not plan this story at all. I mean I was supposed to write about someone else but ended up writing about this creature... since its obviously my favourite character. I have to write about the last one, dammit! But the part I like about her comes later so I'm don't want to write the beginning. And since I don't know why I'm still here crapping, I shall give my poor fishbrain a rest and go to sleep or watch flying tires or whatever I do when I'm not here, writing crap. note: if anyone thinks there's some deep meaning or anything to why I keep repeating ink black, bone white or silver, there's none. I'm just crazy and stupid and dead. |