"Everyone is a color, you know, every single person. It's a scientific fact." Character sketch collection.Chro-ma-tic-i-ty n.
The aspect of color that includes consideration of its dominant wavelength and purity.
I don't know where this came from, but here it is. It's been sitting on my harddrive for a while, so I thought I'd go ahead and share.It's a collection of character sketches of various lengths, some much longer than others, some merely drabbles.
He thinks it's strange that he should worry about her thinking him silly. Nothing, it seems, is too fantastic for her. It isn't that she's credulous, gullible: she just believes so much, has so much faith for just one person. And they make fun of her, laughing behind her back, jeering and rolling eyes and calling names and ignoring how cruel their words are. Though she never seems to mind, not the way he would—did—does.
But nonetheless, he does worry about it, putting it off, feeling heat rise to his cheeks every time he thinks about it. Finally he musters up a thimbleful of the courage he should, as a Gryffindor, have in abundance and approaches her.
She's sitting outside, underneath a bench instead of on top of it. He is not surprised.
"What is it today?" he asks, sitting down clumsily beside her.
"Floxinveets," she says solemnly. He's never heard of them, but doesn't immediately write them off as myths like he used to. He also doesn't ask. Instead, he nods, and waits.
The thing he likes about her is that she can just be quiet for long stretches of time, not chattering on until his head spins like most girls do, and that she's alright with his silence, never, subtly, pressuring him to fill the silence, forcing out words that are as awkward as he feels. Instead, she reaches through the silence, approves of it, blesses it, and he is content with his thoughts, which are not awkward at all.
But words, of course, are necessary sometimes, and now is one of those times. So he gropes for them.
She blinks at him, owlishly, behind white-blonde hair, between door-knocker earrings, above seashell necklace. The words stumble out like he stumbles up and down stairs and out of bed and over benches and into desks.
He's sure she thinks he's silly, but he thinks she should know, he doesn't know why except that it seems so important, even though it doesn't have anything to do with anything and is jut a result of his boredom, but does she know that when he thinks about her—not that he does that often—though she's worth thinking about, he means…he means…she just reminds him of silver. Silver like moonlight, like her wing—but she doesn't have wing, though she could—should…he means, silver like her laughter, silver like her hair—when the moon is out, not during the day, of course—and he knows her eyes are blue but they seem silver and maybe it just has to do with her name—since it means moon and the moon is silver—well, most of the time, though sometimes it's gold or white and he saw a red moon once, scarlet, like blood, and it scared him, but anyways, silver….
The words peter out, down to a trickle, till there is nothing left but the sound of the wind in the trees and the students laughing down by the lake.
She blinks again, then takes his hand. She does not smile, but she doesn't need to, for her steady gaze is better than any smile, and says, "Of course you're not silly. I am silver. Everyone is a color, you know, every single person. It's a scientific fact. Didn't you know that?"
But of course, you see, he did.
Up next: Blue