Racist Sign Novels & Stories

They were currently making leaflets, distributing them with drones, without any written propaganda, only pictures. Pictures of Asti people being discriminated against, not fake photoshopped images, but real, captured moments. A sign stood at the entrance of a restaurant, reading "Asti people and dogs are not allowed." At the entrance, an elderly Asti man, who had just finished his gardening work, looked at the sign hungrily. He was dressed neatly and had the racial mark on his cheek, but he could only hold the hard, self-made bread in his hands, his eyes dull and numb;

I nodded. There was a general sense of unease in the room. I don’t care. Fuck these old bastards. “And I think it’s more than an outdated view to speak so negatively about meta-humans. To be frank, it’s racist. And I rather doubt we want the company to become known as racists.” Mason shrugged his shoulders.

But then I remember I did it for Zara. "I said we're just friends," I reply dryly. One of the friends scoffs, the ugliest of them all. "So that gives us a chance for me and you to be more than friends..." I smirk. "I only do lookable people." That guy bangs the table and points a finger at me furiously. "You just called me ugly because of my colour! You racist bitch!" he roars. I scoff. "Don't be mad at me for being straight about my type."

Do they think racism is funny? “She’s dead. And just so you know, she wasn’t an immigrant or an illegal citizen, you racist bigots,” I spew out, my chest burning with rage. The woman looks up at me, smiles, then walks around the desk. Before I can process what’s happening, I feel gut-wrenching pain in my stomach. She’s punched me, and I bend forward, coughing in pain.

'I might be friends with him right now if it wasn't for that bunch of losers,' Mike thought, directing his rage at all fascists in the direction of his former friend. "Stuff her," he said. Grace had always had Ricky's magical seal of approval. Without that, her popularity level was bound to plummet even further than it already had. With half the school on her back, she needed Ricky to defend her. "Ricky has made his stance on the Grace situation pretty clear too," he said. "She's fucked." "He's half Jamaican. He probably deals with racism a lot," Eddy said. "Who would dare?" Mike frowned. "Well, I mean systemic racism. The racism inbuilt into society. I've been reading about it on social med

All they needed to do was bet against her, and it would keep her odds working in her favor. And their anger towards her existence certainly grew. It came to the point where they made signs targeted directly at her. They made sure to display them boldly when the EyeCasts looked in their direction. The signs had angry rants written all over them such as ‘APES DON’T BELONG’ ‘Gut It And Feed To The Avicii’ ‘It Should Be Dinner, Not A Winner’ Eva found most of them rather amusing instead of insulting. She smiled secretly at their foolishness. Their blind hatred was so strong that they didn’t realize they were literally lining her pockets.

“I won’t be dealing with the likes of you. Anyone who can help pull this club out of the pile of dog shit it’s been rolling in has a chance. I don’t give a fuck what color their skin is. You would have killed that baby’s aunt and allowed Kiley to go to a cho-mo. The only nigger I’m looking at is you and that includes anyone who wants to side with you.” I look around again. “If you do, get the fuck out now.” All attention is back on me. “If you plan to stay, you need to know a few facts about exactly who we are. It’s time we begin living up to our name.” I take my cut off and turn it around so everyone sees the emblem. “We’re Crows—a tight-knit family. Loyal. We protect our territory. Like a

“For me it will be, but, I don’t know for you!” “Face me, you boar!” “Will you stop with that?” “Why?” “It’s racism.” “Tell me, why?” “Look at him? I’m a boar, am I not?” “Yes, I don’t get it?” “What is there to not understand? I’m a boar; it’s racist to call a boar, boar!” “I get it.” “Good for you,” the boar rushed forward. I moved to the right. The boar missed me.

“He wants us to know this was no random attack. This was personal. A challenge.” Hugo clenched his fists, the vivid imagery churning in his mind like a storm. The symbol—Malrik’s twisted paw—was more than just a mark. It was a deliberate mockery of the unity that defined their pack. The crescent moon, traditionally a sign of protection and the werewolf bond, was engulfed in flames, a perverse declaration of chaos and destruction. Malrik wasn’t just sending a message; he was spitting on everything the Ocean Crest Pack stood for.

I explained. “I called them what they are,” Rune argued. “No. You used a slur for what they are. Sage is a hybrid. What you called them is not different, better, or more acceptable than those protesters outside calling me a faggot.” I argued. “Not cool, Rune.” Léonel shook his head. “Calling a hybrid anything but a hybrid or a wolf is like someone calling you a redskin or some other racial slur against Indigenous folks.” “Do not call me that, wolf,” Rune hissed.