Selected Works from Sevyn

Some pages found in Sevyn's personal papers. Certainly not my best writing.


Short Story “Color”

The world was once without color. Everything, and literally, everything, was in black and white. All the hues of the rainbow were represented by different shades of black and white. Even the sky turned into streaky lines of grey. Peering eyes couldn't see pass the shroud. The artists frowned as the slow wave of ebony and ivory passed over their paintings and the bees couldn’t tell which flower was which.
People complained at it, and some threw rocks in the sky to protest. But people adjust, and over time, the amount of pebbles diminished as people grew accustomed to the grey dreariness of all. You were able to see the blush of a newborn child, the green hills of a prairie. Even the sun was just a white, white disk in the sky. It was difficult to tell if it even was a sphere, because in a world limited to two colors, your perception was limited to two dimensions as well.
And, after a few generations, people forgot. They forgot the world of color, relative of the original people who witnessed the Change would be hard pressed to describe it. After awhile the definition of color was different shades of grey. It became a myth, a legend.

Her name was Ena. She wasn’t particularly unique, yet she had a gleam in her eyes. When she came out of the womb her eyes (strangely open) radiated curiosity at the surrounding around her. While the other babies sat down and swatted at each other, Ena would examine every inch of her twelve by sixteen foot confinement.
She noticed the lines in the carpet all went the same way, and if she concentrated, she could hear noises out in the hall. Distinct mutterings in a cloud of crying. Maybe the babies cried because they expected a world of color. Ena didn’t know though, for you see, she was the first in a long time to see. She didn’t know it at first.




Scrap 1 "Thinking of Zelda without actually ever playing it"
The motor chugged rhythmically with the gurgling waters. There was no occupant inside the boat, yet the motor still ran and the stream didn’t care. It was glad for company. Small fishes moved aside as the wooden hull moved past. It wasn’t brand new by any means but it certainly didn’t have barnacles. The propellers made weak ripples, quickly erased by the growing force of the stream. There were rocks ahead with white water thrashing around them. A splash of water went up the planked sides, strangely.

Scrap 2 “Chimera” or Bad Chronometry

Prologue
The count down timer beeped again.
Getting closer and closer to 00:00:00:00.
Inside, tiny circuits led to the end.
The end of everyone.


The helicopter flew low over the Atlantic. It was a Bell 412, with a sleek dull green paint job. The moon’s reflection was distorted in the wake of the powerful helicopter blades. It bore no identification number. The only light inside came from a green glow inside the cockpit, heavily obscured through tinted glass. The only symbol was a small illustration on the rear of the helicopter. A chimera.

On the Atlantic coast Sergeant Lincoln squinted hard at the radar screen. He thought he could see a faint dot, but it disappeared. It would arrive with five minutes. He stood up and turned back only to bump into his commanding officer, Lieutenant Churchill.
He fumbled out of his mouth, “SIR!Idetectedastrangeanomalyand-“
Churchill laughed and lit his cigar. “Sergeant, you have had one too many cups of coffee. Let’s go shoot Dolph’s BMW. I heard he hates juice.”

Scrap 3 “Trains”
A siren wailed down Lundanum Street. The red and blue pulsing seemed eerie in heavy pouring. The tinted windshield hid the driver of the car. It would have been a strange sight if someone did, because a clown was at the wheel. It wasn’t a normal clown, it was actually a zombie clown. The car swerved left and right down the deserted street. A loud bell was ringing close by. The clown didn’t comprehend it and let out a loud moan. Then the train smashed into the police car because zombies can’t drive very well or notice railroad crossings.
The end.

Scrap 4 “Meta-Writing”
He sat alone on the desk. Multi faceted light streaked in through the windows that never saw any use. A well-worn cushion sat underneath the windowsill. The man sat on a cheap and not altogether comfortable chair, and he was leaning on an antique table. He scribbled a few lines of script, frowned, and held the end of his quill in his mouth. The grand bookshelves are mostly filled with dull, and uninspiring texts. They sat there more for show than use. The writer scribbles more lines, bites his lips, and crosses out. He begins to write quickly and fluidly, and a few more lines are added. The cycle goes on.


He kept the chair uncomfortable for a reason. It made him focus, and it made his writing seem more like hard work at the end of the day. The writer often halted for a few moments and thought of something from his life he could add. He always needed new input for stories. He always saw objects in a different light from a literary perspective and it never ceased to amaze him how much you could describe with words. He hoped that he could always write until the day he died, because a writer’s work never ceases.

Scrap 5 “More Trains”
“ . . . I used to roll the dice; feel the fear in my enemy’s eyes “ she sang softly to herself on the 32L train. White headphones seemed subtle on her grey beanie. If anyone was in the car with here they would have noted that she wore a faded aviator jacket and charcoal jeans. Not many people rode the train anymore. But her piercing blue eyes could convince anyone she was prepared. Something was wrong about the trains in Dugottam. The city had stopped maintaining it years ago but it still ran everyday with flickering lights and faded advertisements.

I always like reading other people's work. Excellent job!

Roflbeeb wrote:I always like reading other people's work. Excellent job!

Danke. BTW these are not Minecraft related, the only one that is is terrible.