Green with envy
I'm wickedly presistant and can plant roots of doubt and unkindness.
I twist and turn with greedy wants that push and pull just to manipulate.
I find the deepest dullest discomfort and contort it until it creates a near death pain.
I make you feel uglier, dumber, dimmer, worthless and quite insane.
I take your talents and strengths and wipe them away with fear and intimadation.
I make you crave everything you can't have while I drain every desire you wished for.
I smile proudly as tears sting your eyes and blur real life and make you see things slanted.
I'm jaded and marbled, mossy with sour spreading from my garden, streaked with rotting nature and toxic organic cruelity in my veins and vines of dispear and mistrust. I am green with envy and I can grow best in your shadiest shade, hidden in your unsettled forest and in every blade of grass crushed under your heaviness.
Good morning, Mr. Grey!
This morning, Mr. Grey slowly rose out of his cot and sauntered to the coffee pot. The sun is out and the birds are chirping as Mr. Grey sips his brown drink in solitude before entering the world of vibrance and others. He showers, puts on his groutfit, and draws his blackout curtains. He opens up his laptop and logs on his Zoom work call.
“Good morning, Mr. Grey!” Ms. Yellow cheerfully exclaims.
“Hello, Yellow.”
“Are you having a great day thus far?”
“I woke up…”
“Well you look great!”
I don’t know how long I can keep this up.
“Grey, do you have those TPS reports ready to go?” asks Red.
“TPS reports? I don’t think I was told to have anything prepared.”
“Yeah, they were included in the memo that was sent out this morning.”
“Shit”
“What was that?”
“Nothing… I’ll have them over to you shortly.”
After Ms. Yellow and Mr. Green exchange ideas on the companies marketing efforts, Mr. Grey logs off the call, pours another cup of coffee and types out his TPS reports. He sends the email to Red, and leans back in his chair only for the wheels to slip out from beneath him. Before he slams onto the floor, Mr. Grey watches his coffee fly up and out of his hand, straight above his body before gravity does it’s job. I’m not even a primary color! What did I do?!
Meeting Blue
We aren't alone in the room, but the way his piercing eyes follow me makes me feel as though we are. As I move through the room, he hardly moves, but he never takes his eyes off me. He is still - perfectly still - yet somehow not tense or rigid. He is calm and relaxed, but his posture makes me believe that he would be ready to jump into action with a second's notice.
Though I try to ignore him and enjoy the party, I find him oddly fascinating, and I can not stay away.
As I approach, he stands with incredible grace. He is tall and slender with short blonde hair and a clean-shaven face. He nods politely to me but doesn't smile.
"Enjoying the party?" I ask.
"I always enjoy a party," he answers. His jeans and shirt are not an outfit that screams extravagant, but they fit his body so perfectly that I suspect that they might be tailored.
He makes no effort to draw attention to himself. He speaks very little, and when he does, his words are concise. He moves little, but when he does, his movements are intentional and precise. It's almost as though he plans every move he makes, every word he speaks, and yet everything he does is done with such ease and grace that it seems natural.
"I don't think we've met before," I say.
"We've met. You just never noticed me," he says. "I'm always around. You just have to know where to look."
Black
Going down the Flinders highway is no walk in the park. Anyone planning to drive on the road should have a full tank of gas before venturing down that lonely stretch of absalt. Nothing but trees and brush flank my sides as I drive towards the next city. Encountering no trouble, it should take a few hours to get there. If I’m not so fortunate, I’ll be nightfall before I reach civilization. That’s what always gets me on my nerves.
The first time I came to Australia, I talked to a few farmers out on the fringes of Mount Isa. One thing I remember the most, is the dread that came over their faces when talking out having to go east. An older fellow, who had to be past his sixties, said he would keep an evil eye key chain in his glove compartment if he ever suspected needing to drive through Flinders during nightfall. Many other residents had similar attitudes. A seasoned trucker named Mavis always stashed a shotgun in her back seat whenever she went down the stretch. A family of five living at a ranch near the highway would bring a rosary for each member along with a bible if they ever needed to go east.
Regardless of the precautionary measures, everyone was certain about one thing. That thing was to never drive the full stretch of highway at night. Countless potholes and bumps assaulted my wheels as I continued down the dusty road. Despite its age, the old pavement somehow still stayed a solid black. Thoughts of the cause for this puzzled me and intruded on my thoughts. They likely did this to distract me from the real issue.
Unfortunately for me, the sky was dark with clouds. A few drops of rain pattered on my windshield. The weatherman said there’d be some scattered showers today, but there was no mention of long-term rainfall. What I was seeing now was surely that. The clouds were low and heavy. If I didn’t have a watch telling me it was a quarter past three, I would’ve thought the sun had already dipped behind the horizon. A few low rumbles of thunder came. The small dribbles misting my windshield turned to full drops coming down in noisy splatters. I turned up the speed of my windshield wipers and drove ahead. A large bolt of lightning struck the ground a half mile ahead of me. The large crack stiffened me in my seat.
I should’ve known better that eastern outback weather didn’t follow the protocol of weathermen. Instead, it had a mind of its own, and that mind was hellbent on ensuring any human entering it wouldn’t be a happy camper. This was especially true along Flinders. The clouds here were always especially dark when it stormed.
I had to accept surrender. The rain came down so hard I could barely see a few feet in front of me. If I made any sudden moves, I could slide. Thankfully, after a few minutes, I could see a small brick building 100 meters ahead of me as I slowed down. I stopped gently to avoid hydroplaning and turned into an old parking lot. The building had a large ripped awning, I noticed when I got closer. I parked under it and got out of the car.
After twenty minutes, the rain had slowed. The wait had cost me precious time, and I had to get going to make up for what I had wasted. It was then that a slight burn smell came blowing through. I walked out from under the awning and went in the wind's direction. A loud rush of water came from a steep gorge behind the building. I went to the gorge’s edge. A dark deluge of water came past in a large stream, taking large branches and debris with it. The smell of smoke still hung in the air. I looked across the gorge to find its source. A large tree had been spit in half by lighting. Both halves twisted to the ground like a ripped apart piece of string cheese. The tree had been spit symmetrically almost perfectly. To my amazement, the ground between the split was still burning despite the rain. A small red flame amongst the charred wood flickered against the wind.
I stood there a while, transfixed with the small flame, valiantly winning against the moderate rainfall. As I remained at the edge of the gorge, the flame suddenly grew a little bigger. A darker cluster of clouds blotted what was left of the sun again. The water below seemed to grow thicker. Heavy rainfall resumed its loud pattering against the ground. The flame did not go out. Instead, it grew until it filled the hollowed space. The hairs stood up on my neck. As my body remained glued to the ground, the flame continued to grow. The rain became relentless until I couldn’t see anything beyond the other bank of the stream and the tree.
My mind remained transfixed with the flame that refused to go out. Its tongues grew bigger and lapped up the wedges of the tree. Despite the rain, a thick smoke smell invaded my nostrils. My eyes remained locked on the flames.
Another wave of fear slithered through my cold, drenched skin. The flame was forming a core. Thoughts of lighters and barbecues nestled in my subconscious. Everyone knew that hot enough flames formed a blue core in their center. The flame had formed one as well, except that its core was black. I continued watching, shivering as the dark tongue grew and twisted in its orange shell.
I almost thought my legs were paralyzed until I moved slightly back. I knew and not knew what I was seeing all at once. While no logical explanations formed in my mind, I’d already confirmed what was occurring. I had to be witnessing an omen. I broke my gaze from the black beacon to the stream. The water looked like a dark soup reflecting off of the cloudy sky.
A few pale masses came streaming by. I shuddered and took more steps back. The rain had slowed down again. I could see the stream much clearer. Floating past were a dozen bloated bodies. It took my mind a few seconds to register them as dead farm animals. Three holstein cows, two chickens, and seven goats undulated through the rapids. Their bulging clouded eyes stared blankly at the sky, which reassured their soulless state.
A small pygmy goat swerved to the edge, catching its neck in the Y of a tree branch wedged in the muddy banks. The animal’s fur was a faded cinnamon with tufts of it scraped off to expose pale skin. Its head nestled deeper into the branched and twisted violently 180 degrees. My stomach flipped to the unmistakable crunch of bone. The goat’s neck twisted like a sick decomposed licorice. Its black eyes stared up at me from the bottom of the gorge.
I again felt transfixed. The goat’s eyes and mine remained locked, its body bobbled to the current. Despite the raging water, its gaze persisted. The goat blinked.
I fell backwards and sprinted back to the building before my mind commanded it. My chest was heaving violently when my clammy hands grasped the handle of my car door. Before any more thoughts came to mind, I slammed my keys into the ignition and sped off. I quickly turned back onto the road, continuing down the muddy desert. All I knew was that I had to get out.
The sea of red
On the path to the sea of red, all he sees is red as he remembers his friends telling him that the world is filled with secrets of all kinds; most of them are harmless and will only last a lifetime, but among them, there are those that are deadly, like his. They told him that his secret will be the beginning of the end and that if he wants to keep the world safe, then he has to walk the path to the sea of red.
The sea of red will take his secrets and bury them, the waves will wash memories and grant him forgiveness. Red will be free, in the sea of red. Free from the sins of those he’s served, free from his own sins of blood, his tainted hands that have drained the lives of many, many creatures.
Red’s secret is one of murder, an ancient order who lived to destroy; built upon death, was their belief. And his too, none in the order had a mind of their own. Their minds were in the hands of the puppet master and the puppet master lives in red. Red is the only immortal member of the order, the vessel of all that is doom.
The puppet master cannot live, but red cannot die, his body won’t allow it and so he must kill his memories, over and over again, he will kill his memories through the sea of red. The puppet master can only control those that know of the order and so he will forget… until the puppet master makes him remember, he who lives in the mind will always control it but he will not control the body until it remembers.
It’s a vicious cycle of lost and found, a battle of time. Red must hurry, it’s like a loading glitch, every time the memories are awakened, the puppet master has to wait a day before he can gain control, red has to forget again before then.
On the path to the sea of red, he hurries, without another thought, he hurries on, to the sea of red, to fall into its embrace as the sea lulls him to sleep, a sleep that will wash his memories.
the colors of black
they pass her by
she's heard it a million times
they say
she's the absence of light
it's not true, it's not right
it’s a lie
they all live inside
of her
she keeps them
it gets overwhelming sometimes
but she would not dare
to let them out
to have people see
so she holds them
close to her heart
all her colors
they say
she's the absence of light
and as she doesn’t deny it
no one asks questions.
O R A N G E
Imagine that everyone constantly thinks about how little you fit in. My defining characteristic is my inability to match something; another word, that is. I am both admired and faulted for my name, my name that carries no resemblance to any other word, no matter how much it's twisted around. "Oh-range...homage?" Sigh.
I make people uncomfortable. My name's refusal to play twinsies with other terms in the vernacular notwithstanding, my appearance is bold. Loud. Of the brights, yellow gets a bit more attention. She's cheerful; she reminds people of the sun. Of butter and gold and optimism. Me, I'm yellow with a rebellious streak of red; I carry more of a threatening fire. And so I divide people; I'm one of those "love or hate" scenarios. For those who love me, I'm their fave. For those who don't, they would stack all the other colours over me.
Still, I don't mind, so much. Just because I notice this mixed reaction doesn't mean that I let it wound me. I appreciate what I am. I take pride in my versatility. I'm in the softness of nature, the most delicate petal or monarch's wing. I'm the crisp, daring exterior of my namesake fruit. I'm artistic as a sunset, shocking as a traffic cone. I'm on the surface of autumn leaves and in the wax of crayons. I understand that the reason some people dislike me is the same reason people like me: I don't look or sound like anything else. I'm a reminder to be unapologetically you.
#orange #writing #beyourself
pink.
pink, he is clothed in petals
sweet-smelling cherry blossoms
lingering in the space where the sun touches the earth
at the horizon.
he lives in the sunset
his bare feet softly touching the ground
the bare ground
raw and fresh
wet soil and wet leaves and
wet petals sprinkled.
pink, she loves herself.
she wears long flowing dresses and braids her hair with
flowers.
she works hard
too hard, maybe
maybe she just wants to be seen.
pink, she is
loud and quiet and everything at once,
pink,
she is the world.