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A/N: Something from my writing journal… it’s metaphorical.

Story and characters are © Greg Martin

Red had always been his favorite color. His eyes had always been blue. The history his family prided upon depended on their being white. The three colors of The Flag always meant a lot to him.

In the day, in the light of the sun, he’d shine his blue eyes, show off his red shirt laying upon pale white skin. The colors were perfect for the boy, they seemed to fit him so well.

During the night, in the shadow of the moon, his blue eyes continued to shine. But what they shone upon was nothing similar. The peak of the pleasure, the peak of the pain, they melded together in a puddle.

During the day, his blue eyes would twinkle in the sun’s smile. When the moon rose, his eyes would twinkle in the razor’s smirk.

While the sun was high, his blue eyes would guide pale white hands through writing and maths. As the moon shone, the hands would be driven to pump, to pleasure.

The colors were his life, everything to him.

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