A nice fiction. No deaths, no nothing. Just descriptions.

Done in social studies


Soft breeze, gentle pulse. Hair flying back from his face. Blue eyes look at the darkness below, and sometimes, he wonders how The Nightwalker can stand doing business down there. White coat flying back. Nobody can see him, even if there are any people awake and looking up for some reason.

He loves this place. It's quiet, tranquil...the only living things here to interrupt this silence are the birds. Airplanes fly higher than this; the sound hardly reaches him.

Bright lights flash underneath him, bright lights twinkle above him. Stars and streetlamps, and he's in between. He doesn't mind. He likes to look down and see the chaotic activity of the world beneath him, then look up and see the peaceful tranquility of the world above. It is soothing, in a strange, twisted way, to know that he is sandwiched in between these two opposites, becoming a medium. His life has its ups and downs, its chaos and its calm, and he knows he is meant for this.

Being built to fly doesn't necessarily mean that he is GOOD at it. But years of practice, both during the day and night, have honed his skills until he is as good at it as The Nightwalker is at making his dolls. He has dolls of his own, too, pretty ones. And while they may not be as complex or as intricate as The Nightwalker's, they are still difficult to make. He is glad that he is the one in charge of making those fair pure dolls that skate across the sky. They all have names, and no two dolls are alike. His cloth is the pearly rays of dawn, his needle the darkness. His dolls can't be all good; the world would never have any plants otherwise. This is why he and The Nightwalker were assigned together, he thinks. It's so we can learn interdependence so that we learn to need each other.

His dolls range from soft white to ominous black. He likes the white ones the most: they remind him of shyness and innocence, two traits he has never had. The black ones are somehow calming to watch as they gather together in the sky for a party, with thunder, lightning, and raindrops as their music and the whole sky for their dance floor. Their music is loud, blaring. It has no words, no titles, no beginnings or endings. And sometimes, he thinks it is the best kind of music that has ever been invented. And he is at the center of this all: he's the one that plans these parties, he lets the dolls of innocence dance shyly across the wide neverending blue the same color as his eyes. And even though he never takes part in any of their dances, he is still having the most fun of them all. His dolls implore him to dance with them; he declines because he does not know the dance's delicate steps and he does not want to disturb the fun they have by making up dances for themselves. He needs his dolls to have fun, because sometimes he feels that the only fun he has is through them. And some days, he really feels like it is that way.

It is still night. He passes a few of his dolls, grouped together to form one big doll so they look more impressive. None of his dolls are awake right now. There is nobody to see them dance, so they sleep and regenerate more energy for this day's dance session.

The quiet settles into his bones as he moves past, gazing at all his sleeping dolls. His eyebrow raises...there's a doll he knows he hasn't made. It looks out of place. It is pure white, innocent, and yet he's determined to believe it isn't as pure as it looks. It has many holes in it, clearly a patchy job. He examines it carefully, like a doctor examining a cancer patient. Then he smiles. He knows exactly why the job is so crude, why there are so many ragged holes in this doll, why it looks so out of place. He strokes the doll gently, watches it stir slightly, not quite ready to dance yet.

His soft smile is gentle. He will keep this doll. Not to fix, of course not. He would never dream of fixing THIS doll. It is special, and he will keep it. It is far too fragile for dancing; it would get torn apart in seconds. He will keep it because he knows who made it, and that person has a special place in his heart. He will have to make a doll for him, even though he isn't good at it. He will make a dark doll for his pet. He knows that The Nightwalker has a new pet; he will make a shadow for it. He looks up. The sun is starting to rise; his dolls are awakening. It is time for him to leave.

One hour later, the sun is fully up over the horizon. The shadows and clouds dance across earth and sky. Their makers are nowhere to be seen, but that is alright. Their legacy leaves scars on the earth, cotton on the sky. And somewhere, in a world that never was, The Nightwalker and Skyskater are dancing, for only each other to see.

The legacy of The Skyskater and Nightwalker lives on...

If you don't know what "dolls" the Skyskater makes, he makes clouds.

Well, thanks for reading, please review!