Portia Chang (12) CREATIVE WRITER
“You’re lucky,” he grumbles. I tilt my head, shooting him a warning glance. But he continues, “You don’t have to wonder where you came from. Who-” he scoffs “-gave birth to you. Or whether you’re actually real or n-”
I hiss at him. “Shut up. It doesn’t matter. Don’t attract any attention to yourself.”
He shrugs. “I already do,” he says, with a bitter wink of his turquoise eye. “They can tell, you know. That I’m a Figment. They’d be stupid not to notice.”
“And they’d be jerks to care,” I retort.
He gives me a lopsided smile then, and whacks my head. “You’re naïve. And that’s why we’re friends, I guess.”
((In a world where imagination runs rampant and has gained a mind of its own, those who don’t actually exist are looked down upon. They have incredible abilities, but no rights. Scorned by society, they are the Figments.))
