Easel

Several pieces of extremely short fiction on color.

I. Blue

            Welcome to the Expanse!

            I don’t believe I caught your name.

            We’re glad to have you, Ms. DeCadees. If you’ll follow me, please.

            Oh, that’s quite typical ma’am. Most of our guests don’t anticipate their arrival either.

            Yes, I can assure you that you will receive excellent care here.

            May I interest you in a light beverage and snack?

            That’s quite all right, how about some clean clothes?

            No need to fear, ma’am, we carry all sizes. The white linen is crafted for complete comfort and I highly recommend it.

            You have no idea how many times I receive that question. I’m afraid not, ma’am. It’s a lovely thought though. There’s simply no need for them.

            Yes, I understand that is the traditional view of us, but you’ll find that many of your traditional views are unfounded in truth. The halos are a myth as well.

            All changed? Excellent. You look positively radiant, Ms. DeCadees.

            Oh! Excuse me a moment, ma’am, I must take this call.

            So sorry for the interruption. It seems there has been a slight miscommunication. If you’ll just follow me back to the entrance…

            Now, please don’t panic, Ms. DeCadees, this happens every so often.

            Yes, I’m afraid they called your number accidentally.

            No, you won’t feel a thing, I promise.

            Remember me? That is your choice, ma’am.

            It has been a pleasure. I look forward to meeting you again.

            Oh! Ms. DeCadees! …ah! What am I supposed to do with her purse?

II. Red

            I was told I can’t tell my whole story in one word. I was told I can’t express emotion into one word, that I can’t explain experience into one word, that I can’t expect eloquence with one word.

            They asked me how I thought one word could convey the bitter hatred that had consumed me. How could it capture how that hatred had turned to raging passion and, in time, to love beyond all comprehension?

            The hunger that had gnawed away at my life, the insatiable desires that had pulled me down dark roads and poorly lit hallways. The destruction I had caused. Destruction that had ruined, but at the same time, gave birth to something greater.

            Her. Without my destruction there wouldn’t have been her.

            They laughed when I told them my name was enough to tell my story. My name was the one word that fulfilled my testimony. They didn’t understand, and they probably never will.

            They define power in terms of sentences, paragraphs, even essays. They find that magnitude increases their power. They are wrong, of course. If there were a single letter that could tell my story, I would only use that"that would be raw, unadulterated power. But I am too unskilled to determine what that letter is.

            Yet, I know the word.

            Fire.  

III. Yellow

            You decided to take a walk. Now don’t ask me why, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. I certainly advised against it, what with the black clouds and rumors of thunder. But you decided to walk anyways. Muttered something about clearing your head. Or perhaps you told me to clean off my bed. Either way, neither of those things are bound to happen anytime soon.

            While you were walking, you intentionally stepped on the cracks. I know because Molly--you know, the little daughter of Mrs. Corroway?--Molly was watching you and you never step on the cracks, but that day you stepped on every single one. Molly thought it was strange. But I understand why you were stepping on the cracks. It’s okay, really, I wasn’t upset about it or anything.

            Anyways, then you starting walking out in the street and just stood there, in the middle of the road, looking towards where the old gas station used to be. That’s when Molly went and got her mother. But she wasn’t quick enough.

            You were lucky there weren’t any cars on the road. But I told you, I told you, that it looked stormy out. I asked you to stay inside. You never listen. You slammed the door on the way out.

            Do you remember?

            Please wake up.

IV. Purple

            Sir Gallivan rode with a ferocity that he had rarely exhibited before in his privileged lifetime. He owed such fervent travel to his pursuers"dark knights of a mysterious land that none could name. Or so the people were told. Much of the history of the land that Gallivan called home was founded on elaborate lies, as he had recently discovered.

            “Stop!” Gallivan saw fit to ignore the order and press his mount to an even faster speed. Alas, Lady Luck must have fallen asleep--or was courting elsewhere--for it wasn’t but a moment later when Gallivan’s horse stumbled and both horse and rider went flying across the forest floor.

            Gallivan rose to his feet and promptly found a naked sword point at his neck.

            “She can be hasty,” warned his captor with a wicked grin. Gallivan licked his lips nervously.

            “Most of ‘em in these parts are,” he replied. The dark knight chortled.

            “So have you figured it out?” the knight asked, as his companions began circling Gallivan. “I would assume you have, considering.” He motioned the men around him.

            “I remain faithful,” Gallivan said steadfastly. The dark knight’s easy demeanor vanished.

            “Come now,” he growled, “that’s no fun. Confess what you have learned. I want to hear you say it.”

            “It’s no matter,” Gallivan resisted, “it is forgiven.”

            The dark knight had not lied about the hastiness of his lady sword.

            “See what your faithfulness has brought you,” he spat on the body.

V. Green

            “I don’t think I’ve never seen anything be born quite like this,” the young man whom Eric had the privilege to call his best friend uttered in amazement. Eric was cradling the new creation in his arms, tenderly stroking it and mind already spinning with possibilities of the future.

            “Dom, this is it,” Eric said breathlessly, in wonder. “After all these years…”

            “We’ll have to keep it a secret though, won't we?” Dom asked thoughtfully. Then he flashed Eric a lopsided grin. “But secrets are what we’re best at, right?”

            “Right.” Eric had barely heard Dom, he was distracted by something on the newborn that he hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t necessarily bad, but it could throw a wrench into things further down the line.

            “Wait, we need something clever to call it. Something this big, this new, needs a special name.” Dom began pacing, his brow creased in concentration. Eric laughed, causing Dom to immediately cease his thinking efforts and look at Eric in confusion.

            “There’s always been a name for this. Over the years we’ve forgotten it.” Eric felt himself surge with a warm glow of pride, as he stood up straighter and looked Dom in the eye.

            “Dom,” he proclaimed, “we just had an Idea.”

VI. Orange

            “When shall we ever leave?” grumpled Henry Tomthompson as he and his foreign wife skebabbled throughout Anaby Square, shopping for various necessities such as apple cinnamon pastries and expensive pencils made from recycled coupons.

            “Payshuns ees laike vertoo,” his wife drawled, similar to how an artist mistakenly adds a stroke of bright paint on a nightscape.

            “That is not how it goes,” Henry grouched misernabically. As they rounded the third corner of Anaby Square, they were quite starpled to find a veritable horde of shoppers descending upon a store.

            “My, my!” exclappered Henry’s wife, much like how a housewife discovers jellybeans under the sofa.

            “I know what this is,” Henry rumnintated, “there must be a great sale on shoes or cell phones or licorice candy.” He nodded his head with sagical wisdom perched on his brow. “These people are rude and inconsiderate in such a state.”

            Henry and his timtittering wife made to navigate around the habbering host when they were forced to engage in conversation.

            “You folks here for the spree?” a friendly shopper askibated.

            “Suhpree?” questioned Henry’s wife, in a fashion not unlike a bird upon finding a worm that knew not only English, but Latin and Greek as well.

            “Oh yes, the Thong Spree!” the shopper eagerly reploozled, “All the thongs are eighty percent off! Here, take my place in line!”

            Henry was quite off-put by the shopper’s extraordinary kindness. His wife turned to him, exactly as a dial turns on a rotary phone.

            “Deeresst Henree, yoo were snarking at thee Thong Spree!”

VII. Black

In the same stroke of dark--a spark. Supposedly the same shade with a different fade, but never to receive accolade always bade farewell, then sent to Hell without a chance to tell the truth. Of course, the truth could be more nightish, bound to be more frightish, but whose right is it to judge what’s light versus lightish? Not mine, not yours, not determined through wars nor heard from under doors. It is the artist’s privilege to decide the outcome of his image, his decision without revision and regardless of derision.

So in this brief prose I come to a close with a question I pose: who claims to know where the black really goes?

VIII. White

            In the same stroke of white--a plight. Supposedly the same virtue with which to divert you from a truth that could hurt you, or worse, disillusion. That would lead to confusion and eventually a conclusion that would reveal the nature of the crime, peel away the purity and see the grime, no avoiding this time. Why do we deceive"to intentionally grieve, to throw away and leave, our deception is thievery. Truth has been stolen, the tumor of Lie has swollen, trust has been broken.

            It’s a challenge I end with, something for you to contend with, to ponder and wonder and wrestle under: how white are you and why not let the night shine through?

Author's Note

Criticism welcome.

Reviews

[Kringefest]

My personal favorite was Yellow. It was excellent, as well as the rest of the shorts. Splendid usage of the point of view, I enjoyed that the most. You did an amazing job at submerging the reader into the story. Also, the ending was rhyme-y and flowed very well.

[Jack Wolfe]

Yes, I understand that (,) that is the traditional view of us

Some places need spacing, most around quotations.

Also watch you (ly) adverbs, you have quite a few strewn throughout.

I enjoyed the perspective you took with this, the different reflections, a bit of contrast to the norm.
I think blue and red were your strongest, but ending with white, pulled it together to make it a whole.

[Chad Sell]

Thanks for the review! I copied from Word and I see some of the errors in spacing now--thanks for pointing it out. Thanks for reading!