A Pasty Man

I’ve been struggling recently to write, so I’ve come up with this little idea to get things going; I’m going to try and write 200 words per day, and finish a short story with in the next few days. Once I’m settled back into a routine, I can go back and start working again on my longer works.

So, here you go:

Pasty skin, pasty lips, pasty everything. He had been born with a coat of ivory, and had gone through his teenager years being called “vampire”, “albino”, and “Mr. Freeze” by a kid with chipped tooth and a never-fading black eye. As a young man, he had spent two years and a couple of hundred greens on tanning sprays which turned him orange, and tanning sessions that he quit after his first cancer scare. At the age of twenty-two, he settled his vendetta with his skin-tone, and realized that perhaps he would forever remain pasty. The decision came slow, after being called paper-thin by ex no. 1, ex no. 2, and ex no. 4. His color wasn’t a big deal, he reasoned; some countries have populations that are even paler than he was, so just because his fellow country men had a nice glisten to their tone, it didn’t mean that handsomeness was bound to it. He was over it, except for when he pickpocket his sister’s bronzer on a few occasional dates (but he didn’t own, and that was all that mattered!). He never ever brushed it on his face though; only over his abs- or ab.
It was one particular day that he felt oddly confident…

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