Orange (By Survivors)

==Orange.==
Hi there.
Im Surivivors
This is a little story I decided to make. It’s not even close to finished, right now...
It’s pretty personal to me, so I really hope you enjoy.
Thank you for reading.
=== AN INTRODUCTION: === 
Orange. 
An interesting title for a something, don’t you think?
It’s basic. 
It’s a food.
It’s also a color. 
I want to tell you a story. There is no villain (though some would say that’s debatable)… there isn’t much action, nothing really happens. I only want to show you someone who is sad. A little slice of life. It’s cake is brown, if you like metaphors. If you don’t then I’ll explain it as this: it’s a boring, stupid cake.
But before I tell you this story you may want to know who’s telling it. I personally think it doesn’t really matter, but here’s a few things to know about me…
·       I like to watch things.
·       I have never been noticed, but I am always there. 
·       If I spoke I would be soft spoken. 
·       You haven’t met me, but I’ve met you.
I hope I don’t come across as a stalker. That wouldn’t be a good start, would it? The narrator is a stalker.
Well… an interesting idea, really.
I just stand at the sidelines, that’s all. I observe things. I smile, sometimes. 
There’s a bit more, but I’m sure you’ll figure that out without help. I trust you.
Enough about me, I feel like I’m stealing the spotlight. It is broken, though, so I don’t know if it much matters.
Let us begin. 
With a little something called war.
///
There was a dragon, under a cart with a missing wheel. Breathing heavily. Slowly.
Quietly.
He cried too.
Quietly.
His name was Shore. He was a Seawing, as you may have guessed. He was hiding. Darkness, a blanket, wood, a shield. It wasn’t enough.
This memory was planted firmly in his mind and heart from that day forward. In seven minutes, everything changed.
Clock ticks mixed with screams. Not his own, though. He was too busy trying to live another day.
In one minute, his home was gone. Five years of memories were gone.
In two minutes, the sky was gone. In its place was fire. A flame that never faded, in his eyes.
In three minutes, he saw his first drop of blood. His first dead dragon. His first severed talons. His first remorseless murder.
In four minutes, he realized everything around him was pointless.
In five minutes, his parents were gone. 
In six minutes, he was hiding from death, who had hunched over and was looking for him.
In seven minutes, a war was over.
And in a comedic twist, seven dragons survived. 
Other dragons came up with a very original title. The Seven Minute War. I would’ve preferred something a bit more terrifying, if I’m being honest. 
As for justice, it gives the war none, I’m sorry to say.
The numbers of Seawings, Sandwings, and Mudwings had been halfed. The world showed itself for the first time.
Shore looked around and saw nothing.
He grew up. All dragons do. He became a writer, or so he said.
He had never actually written anything.
He decided to. He moved to nothing. Nowhere. And all the synonyms you could imagine.
=== A DREARY LITTLE TOWN: ===
I’ve always thought of gray as nothing and nowhere. Think about it. Black is a mixture of all colors. White is so glaringly obvious it must be something, right?
Not gray, though.
Gray is not color. It is the only thing that isn’t color. 
I guess he wasn’t going anywhere if you think about it.
A town called Grey.
That’s a depressing name.
Almost on par with ‘living failure.’
Well, in this dreary little town, he took a dreary little walk on a dreary little day. The first time here. Mud caked his talons.
I dislike mud.
I don’t know why.
I suppose it reminds me of something. 
Hmm…
He looked around at the tall wooden buildings, long shadows stretching as far as they could go in the sun, who had nearly slipped away behind the large mountains in the distance. He instantly thought of the fire hazard.
Or at least his eyes thought of it. And his brain couldn’t help thinking about it.
He shook his head and walked a few more steps, finally stopping in front of a house from his long journey.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Flap.
He settled his papers from the wind, but his watch went on. The first of its kind. A relic from long ago. When the world had been peaceful as it was now. Was it just ticking for when the next disaster would happen? That was Shore’s guess.
But a simple watch didn’t matter right now. He was at his new home!
His dreary little home.
Are you not enjoying the fact that I keep reusing that word choice? Imagine how Shore feels experiencing it.
Though I would say experiencing something is definitely not was Shore was doing.
The little town was remarkably… no, nevermind. I won’t do it to you again…
Dreary. Ha. Fooled.
Shore walked up to the door, it’s hinges rusted and the wood wet. He sighed and looked to his left, at the mountain nearby, and the huge lake near it. The Diamond Spray Delta.
Let me tell you, when he opened the door, nothing on his face changed. That look of disappointment had been glued there for years.
Well, it had been worth the dirt cheap price tag.
He walked inside the place, feeling he was stepping into a ghost’s abandoned lair. Slightly uneven floors, a tiny table and an old couch in the room to the left, a small dining room to the right, along with the bare essentials of what one may call a kitchen. Stairs directly in front of him. Some windows filtering in dying light, showcasing the dust particles floating through the air without a care.
He walked over to the teeny table and set down his belongings. A watch. Four scraps of cloth. A sack. Some papers. Two pens. And a partridge in a pear tree.
He had a plan. A plan to acquire his true goal:
Happiness.
He would come to this little town, and make his home here. He would work hard, write hard (if that was a thing) and make a living selling his stories to the townsfolk.
His true passion, his true love, was writing. Well, reading, but he was planning on writing.
It was the thing that kept him sane when he had nowhere to go, nothing to do, and no one to talk to. Words never left you. 
Words couldn’t die.
=== THE TICK OF A CLOCK: ===
But, words also may not even live in the first place.
We’ll get to that in a moment.
Shore walked up the stairs, and came to a hallway of three doors. A bedroom with a desk. A small office like space. And nothing at all.
It was small, and run down, but it would do.
It sort of reminded him of his old home... right now, of course, it was his old pile of smoldering ashes.
As we let Shore explore his new residence, I just realized something. For as much as I like to talk about colors, I never told you what Shore looks like, did I?
Well, I won’t.
My description couldn’t fit him any better then your imagination, so why give it to you?
The window’s light was fading. Night was near. As Shore opened up a drawer on the desk of his room, he looked out the window and saw a dragon walking down the street.
An Icewing. They were snow white, with a bit of sprinkled purple. 
Suprising to see one out here in the Mudwing and Skywing oriented lands, but, he supposed Phyrria had been unlocked after the Seven Minute War.
Seven Minute Scandal? The Fastest Fight?
C’mon dragons. You have much better names than that.
But, I can only wish.
I may as well stop complaining. It’s not like the narrator can get what they want in a story anyways…
Shore decided he would go around town tomorrow, see if he can find some friendly faces. He needed them.
But now, it was time to write. He went downstairs to get his papers, his pens, and his watch, to keep track of the time he spent. As is it’s purpose.
Up again.
Into the room.
Papers on the desk.
And think.
Of a story.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Think of a story.
Tick. 
Tick.
Tick.
Stop watching the clock and write.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
He got up and put the watch downstairs. There were windows. He could keep track of the time himself.
There was only the buzz of silence, and nothing moved.
No pens wrote and no talons held them.
Writing something seemed much more daunting then reading it. You have to make all those beautiful stories and characters?
“I just need to… go around town. See some things and get some inspiration… ideas. That’s all.” He told himself. And me as well, even if he didn’t know it.
It was late, it was cold, it was misty, and out he went.
He went around, flying and gliding a bit. He saw a few deliciously green trees near a sparkling lake of crystal that invited thirst.
As he went down for a drink, he thought.
Something about a forest? No… hmm…
“Hello Seawing. I’m Jay.” He heard. He turned, water dripping from his jaws. A small baclony on one of the houses, two stories up, warm light coming from within. A Skywing was leaning on the railing. “I haven’t seen you before. Are you new?”
“Yes.” Shore answered.
They got to talking and found out they had a lot in common. Involved in the war at some point. Both trying to pursue their dream. 
Jay was practicing wood carving. An honorable and skillful craft, in my humble opinion.
And no, before you wonder, I do not carve wood.
I’m sad to say he’s the only character in this story who doesn’t live a long life. He is murdered in seven years, after seeing something he was absolutely not supposed to see. So much for everlasting peace after the ‘last war.’
…did I just spoil the fact that there’s no death in this book? Uh… well… I did say there wasn’t a villain. I think it’s ok. 
Whoops. 
I should probably just interrupt myself by letting you hear some dialogue. In a warm home that was finely created, unlike Shore’s.
“-so now I’m trying the apprenticeship thing I mentioned. What about you? What’s your ‘one true goal?’” Jay asked.
By this point Shore had thought of something… he had the basis down. But he didn’t know if he could do it. He knew that it wouldn’t be good… something else would always overshadow it. He had no chance. 
These worries wrapped around his head and stabbed at it with spears crafted from doubt. He had no chance.
“I’m working on a book.” He lied. He wasn’t working on a book, not now. He needed… inspiration? Was that what he needed? 
“Huh. I’ve never been much of a reader. I enjoyed actual work a little more… but you know that. With my training and everything.”
Shore nodded and gulped. What if no one in this town was much of a reader? Was that possible?
He took a small breath.
That wasn’t enough and he took a slightly deeper breath.
After leaving homestead of the new acquaintance, and actually, having sort of a good time, he returned to his papers. His blank papers.
He wrote.
A few lines of black ink slowly appeared.
And he balled it up and restarted. It was scrapped and he had barely even started. I think that may tell you a thing or two about how Shore thought he should write. No mistakes. You had to write with your head, you must think every little thing out, make sure there aren’t any mistakes. Who cares about heart? 
Not him apparently.
Now, the next few chapters introduce the main characters. The town of Grey had more to offer than just Jay.
As we watch another page bite the dust, I will tell you some things. Some things you may want to know. A little bit about what this story will include…
To give you an idea.
Shore would love that right about now.
In time, Shore, in time.
THIS STORY WILL INCLUDE:
·       A brick puncher…
·       Comparatively large glasses…
·       Growing friendships…
·       The perils of writing…
·       Something that’s called a secret…
·       A rusted gold ring… (Yes, I know gold cannot rust)
·       A short collection of non-chapter-worthy experiences and events…
·       A couple of strange thoughts…
·       Forgiveness…
·       A good time…
·       Some other things…
·       Inspiration...
·       And, you guessed it: 
The color orange.
As Shore eventually gave up and went to sleep for the first time, his sadness and disappointment returned. It had disappeared for an unknown reason, but was back. His one true goal of happiness seemed so far away.
Maybe there was a reason.
Maybe not.
===THE BRICK PUNCHER:===
Shore had nearly finished nothing. He was so close to completing a blank page. Come on, Shore! Just one last ripped up paper, that’s all you need!
I’m being sarcastic here. You should probably know that.
In all truth, Shore had written a little. He was clawing at the basics. Using the cliches… as for twisting them, not so much.
But, even after writing, he wasn’t happy. He knew he had to finish. The relief of finishing, the money and glory… that was what it was all about, right?
No.
You can still enjoy all of the above.
But you’d be missing the point.
Maybe Shore will figure that out with time.
Another sheet of white fell to the ground.
Words did swirl around him. He only needed to pluck them out of the whirlwind and place them down. But he couldn’t. He didn’t care about them, only what they’d do, and he couldn’t grab at them.
Shore had a plot but he felt he was trying to hard.
Characters that didn’t feel developed.
A message that wasn’t there.
Every page I create is a catastrophe.
He sighed and rubbed his eyes. He needed food. He hadn’t eaten in days. The trip from the beaches of the Sea Kingdom to the edge of the mountains was a weight that wasn’t easily lifted, with nearly no civilization between them. Maybe food would help.
That’s when he remembered he had no money.
///
Two hours later, he received a small payment from a particularly boring Rainwing after carrying boards for them.
He went to a small community store. Bricks making up the foundation, stairs leading up to a whitewashed porch. It was one story.
How it pained him when he noticed that.
All he needed was one story.
He entered. There was a single lantern lighting his way in the gloomy shop. Small slivers of light came through cracks in the wall. There was a broken clock in the corner, past the old shelves. Everything in the town was quite… it made him feel he was in a moor, glowing red eyes watching him from around mossy trees, in an abandoned cabin with forgotten memories. It was quite strange to look outside and see a cloudy sky and dark green grass. 
He searched around, and found some food on display I won’t name now. It’s not important.
Leave payments in the basket,
please.
He did.
He exited, and went through the little alley to its right after figuring out it was a shortcut. He stopped in the middle of it, and thought.
The dark and empty shop had made him feel sad.
He should write something sad. This place would certainly set the atmosphere…
No. He wasn’t skilled enough to do that.
He felt all his simmering annoyance come back.
He was angry. Angry nothing came to him.
He just straight up punched the wall of the shop.
Instant regret.
“Did… did you just punch a wall?” An Icewing asked, the Icewing he saw yesterday. She was standing at the edge of the alley with a tilted head.
“I… uh, nope.” He said. The joking lie floated out of his mouth like steam as he shook his talons.
She chuckled. “Well, I guess I won’t ask why. There’s a lot of reasons lately. December.”
“Shore.” He answered. That wasn’t he greatest of his anger-induced ideas, not that there was a great long scroll detailing all of them. It would be a scrap, at best.
“Thankfully this place wasn’t hit… too bad everyone sucks around here.”
Hit meaning the war, of course.
“I met someone earlier… I get one you mean.”
“Was is Coconut? That old dragon can’t get over how he met Darkstalker. All he ever talks about.” She said.
“He did mention that a few times. I-“
The war?
The war? 
He could write about the war. 
No one had lived and written about the war.
Finally. A bit of life in this graveyard.
WAIT.
A choir in the graveyard.
He started putting together all these ideas. He wrote it up in his mind. It would be beautiful, it would be glorious. It would be his own.
“I-I’m sorry to cut this short but… I have to do something. Sorry.” He stammered, already going to fly. He had too many ideas and sentences and descriptions to forget!
“Um, ok. But make sure you talk to me again! It’s been forever since someone even a little interesting has come along!” She yelled after him.
Storms looked to be coming in the distance. He payed them no mind.
He swam through the air, and only after a minute he landed on the ground, to collect his thoughts. 
Ouch, by the way. His knuckles still consisted of scales lines of red twine. It really had been a miserable fail. Or maybe in this place it would be considered just a fail.
A building close to the dirt streets was to his right.
A black building. The first one in a long while.
Ray’s was red. Most others were quite gray, blending into the dark painting of colors around them.
In truth, all the houses may have been made of wood, and were all the same color, but sometimes you can just tell. So, so much gray. It becomes hurtful to the eyes, eventually. If only there was a color that would pop…
Anyways, about this building.
Orphanage. 
It stopped him in his tracks for a moment. Everything ceased.
The air no longer moved, or if it did, he didn’t notice.
Maybe he should…
Maybe he could…
He would’ve liked that.
Would he have been there if he hadn’t run into the woods that day?
It took a lot of willpower to turn away. He stopped once again before walking along, slower.
Maybe.
He entered his home, empty.
Dust bunnies jumped up to greet him once again. I’ve always liked calling them dust bunnies. Takes the edge off places like this.
And the obsidian knives the world like to stab you with every once and a while.
He went upstairs, finished his book, and finally painted everything pink and blue and green and orange and every other color.
Or at least, that’s what would happen if I was allowed to change the story.
The troubles of being a narrator.
He sat in front of the desk, creased papers in front of him. Calling to him. He took out a pen and allowed it to glide along the page. 
A long wait passed by. He could practically here his watch in the back of his mind, echoing, telling him to go on. He flipped the paper…
Speaking of narration, I really am melodramatic sometimes, aren’t I?
He wrote a couple of dang pages.
Anyways, as words floated to him for the first time since he planned everything out, he felt.
He felt.
The table of contents. The roughest draft of the table of contents. The sandpaper, dirt ridden, crusty, rock of a table of contents was finished.
He moved onto his bed and lay. He needed to write down his many ideas. The final product could come out so good, he could document seven minutes in such amazing detail! It only took a couple words! The residents of this town must have also felt the effects. Interviews! Perspective! Personality!
He worked well into the night. Forget his watch, as cold as it must be suffering by itself downstairs in the darkness, with no lantern to guide it. It had the sacks to accompany it. And the partridge in a pear tree.
The light was noticed in the window by someone else. Shore didn’t know that, only me. An old Sandwing noticed him, and watched him write a second with a little smile before going back to his work. Through glasses, he also wrote.
——
(hey, if you want a ping for each new chapter, go to the link below and ask.)
https://wingsoffire.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000000365782/r/4400000000003967698
Category:Genre (Romance)
Category:Fanfictions
Category:Fanfictions (Semi-Canon)
Category:Fanfictions (Incomplete)
Category:Genre (Comedy)