The Inkblot Issue V: Colors

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The Inkblot is a production of the Creative Writing program at Green Hope High School. It is intended as a forum for Green Hope students to share original work, including poetry, drama, short fiction, and creative nonfiction. Students often choose to write about issues and subjects that are personal to them, and may even adopt a fictional persona/perspective for the purposes of artistic exploration and expression. The views and feelings expressed herein do not necessarily reflect the opinions or positions of school administrators, teachers, or students.

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Table of Contents 3. Lynne Chen, Colors are a Lie * 4. Aaruba Ayesha, Begin Again * 6. Tara Haddock, Confidence is Key * 7. Scotty French, Colorblind * 9. Marina Catullo, Pink 11. Emily Apadula, How to Describe a Color * 12. Bri Conroy, Red Thorns 13. Molly Canina, The color Yellow 14. Arden Stockdell-Giesler, Shades * 16. Bryn Walker and Sarah Dugger, A Secret 21. Erin Kennedy, The Poem is Not About Suicide 24. Drew Fitzgerald and Asma Hafiz, My Odd Awkward Quirky Obsession 28. Aaruba Ayesha, Crayon Colorings 32. Asma Hafiz, Color Pop 34. Arden Stockdell-Giesler and Julia Langenderfer, Tell Me How the Colors Are 37. Rosie Williams, The Missing Puzzle Piece * 38. Angelica Edwards, Blank Canvas 43. Catherine Edbrooke, Rainbows Over North Carolina * 47. Elizabeth Wilson, In Another Hue 51. Camryn Diagonale, School Colors

Editorial Board Members ● Drew Fitzgerald ● Bryn Walker ● Rosie Williams ● Lynne Chen ● Emily Apadula

*Marked pieces have also been made into video productions. Follow the link on each marked piece’s page, or click below to watch the entire video playlist: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jFTQvoMRcQU&list=PLbHrLJewcsQTb05rDtB2lQv0WVzfqh L9_&spfreload=5

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Colors are a Lie Colors don’t really exist, They are the fakest thing I know, There is no violet or chartreuse, Or blue or soft yellow.

The pretty pink you think you like, The red wilting roses in your vase, Are things you can’t find in the physical world, And you thought you knew this place.

But colors don’t really exist, They're just our minds’ own constructions, Created by the absence of light, These perceptions have no real function.

Colors are fake, yet we like to pretend, That colorful things are real, And I wonder, that, if this is true, There’s also falseness in the things that we feel.

The red that we find in our hearts, When we are burning with passion and love, Is only as genuine as the grass is green, And the sky is blue above.

The yellow that strikes your soul, when you feel that spark of bliss, Is something that just cannot be, Because there is no true happiness.

That delicate pink that made your heart skip a beat, Because you saw it flash across his face, Are just frequencies polarized, Accidently put there, completely out of place.

The world is shades of black and white, Complete only with the absence of light, Filled with inauthenticity, And unreal perceptions of what feels wrong or right.

Colors don’t really exist, Just like the emotions that we “feel”, Because, if even what we see is not true, Then nothing is truly real.

Watch the video adaptation here: https://youtu.be/DbFQScNawI0?list=PLbHrLJewcsQTb05rDtB2lQv0WVzfqhL9_ 4|Page

Begin Again I stare at the sunset, Pausing as the hue of the summer sun starts to fade.

I begin to paint.

Shades of yellow escape my brush.

A flash of amber, like a reflection of the sun on crashing waves.

The shining gold, like the glint of her hair as she twirls and laughs.

The sparkle of caramel on top of crème brûlée, wafting the scent of burnt sugar.

But wait.

I glance up momentarily, and see The vast, glorious sky has changed.

Once covered with hues of sunglow and straw and gold Has changed to something new.

I reach for a new paper and begin again.

The shades of pink envelop the sky.

I stain the paper with persian pink, the color of pale petals, Rose pink, as soft as my sister’s roseate blush, Cerise as dark as cherries, like the smooth, creamy lipstick of my mother.

But wait.

Not too long after, I look up and see The darkening, majestic sky has changed once again.

From golden to pomegranate pink, To hues of purple and violet.

I reach for a new paper and begin again.

Purple ranges from light to dark.

Lavender, and I can smell mint leaves from our backyard, And the color of orchids bloom next in the summer sky.

Finally, the universe and my canvas begin to darken.

But wait.

It is not just purple or just pink or just yellow.

It is all colors a sunset can possibly be.

Gradient changes between a golden child’s laugh And a girl’s rosy kiss and a blossoming violet flower.

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I reach for a new paper and begin again.

But wait, something is different.

I see my previous paintings in my head.

They expand in beauty, explode with bursts of color.

Growing in vision and view.

That is not what I see in front of me.

I only see black blooming in the night.

Ebony skies twining with the glistening, silver crescent moon.

Yes, this is beautiful, but it is nothing Nothing compared to the dusk, the sunset, the end.

Tomorrow perhaps, I will begin again.

Watch the video adaptation here: https://youtu.be/IN4wpEZIISQ?list=PLbHrLJewcsQTb05rDtB2lQv0WVzfqhL9_

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Confidence is Key The color of an individual's hair plays a massive role in his or her appearance. At the start of my junior year I was seeking ways to change the way I looked, because I was not happy with my appearance. This began the never-ending cycle of dying my hair different colors until I finally found the one I felt most beautiful and comfortable in, which ended up being my dirty blonde natural hair. This stage in my life made me realize that we need to accept ourselves as the way we come and not be so focused on what others think of our appearance. Throughout my experience of dying my hair, I learned something pretty peculiar; that the natural color of someone's hair is the most beautiful color an individual can strive for.

I had made the very regretful decision to dye my beautiful long blonde locks to a shade of dark red. At first I was very pleased with the outcome, it was different and I had more of a unique look going for myself. This was a huge transition for me, my long glossy blonde hair had now transformed into a dark mysterious maroon color. All of my friends and family would tell me how crazy it was of me to dye my hair, but I did not listen. It was fun for a couple of weeks to have a hair color that stood out from the others surrounding me, but I still felt like there was something missing from my appearance. I had then decided to go from the deep maroon color to a warm chocolate brown. I chose this color because it was the color of my Mother’s hair, and I had always envied her dazzling caramel brown hair. Once my hair was brown, everyone around me would always say “you look just like your mother.” I was grateful for these remarks, but I didn’t want to be seen as my mother's twin, I wanted to have at least some individuality.

I was happy for a few weeks with the color, but just like before after a few weeks I began to not feel like myself. So I had resorted back to the place I was in just a couple of months ago, once again unhappy with the image that was reflected back at me in the mirror.

It had soon dawned on me that no matter how many times I changed my hair color, there would still be a small feeling of emptiness inside, I knew that dying my hair again was going to permanently damage my lengthy healthy hair. I now knew that I would never be as happy with my appearance unless I was able to have my natural color again. Once my hair was back to its natural dirty blonde, although it was damaged, I had never felt better about myself in my entire life.

Throughout my experience of dying my hair, I learned that an individual’s natural hair color says a lot about who they are. Our natural hair is a gift that we have all been blessed with from birth, and it is something we should be grateful for. Each individual should be proud of their natural color and cherish the uniqueness it brings to us all. Having confidence in yourself is key to having a positive self appearance.

Watch the video adaptation here: https://youtu.be/gehv3Z3p2EY?list=PLbHrLJewcsQTb05rDtB2lQv0WVzfqhL9_ 7|Page

Colorblind When you left me, You took all the color in this world With you.

When I wake in the morning, I no longer see The lapis sky above me or The rich emerald blades of grass below me.

I see only the lifeless, gray hues That once again consume me From the inside Out. Oh how I miss the juniper pools of those eyes, The ones with the amber flakes.

I miss the marigold chain you wore Around your porcelain neck, That hung down to your favorite Crimson dress.

I miss the faint blush of rose On your eggshell skin in winter, As you pet my head so gently with elation.

And the cerulean ring you’d wear That scintillated azure beams of light Into my glistening eyes And no one else's.

You were my shades of alabaster, And no one else’s.

However, I do not miss The scarlet tints of your anger, The cobalt complexion of your misery, And the obsidian stains of your emptiness, That I watched as I laid In your lap, as you wept.

I’ve known my whole life.

My canine eyes would only ever see black and white.

But through those eyes, I shared a life with you 8|Page

As a pet, A friend, A companion.

And in return You shared with me, A life rich with abundant colors That I could not see, But could feel, Through you.

You meant the world to me.

You were my world.

You gave to me, If just for a time, An absolute spectrum.

And in the end, When you left me, Abandoned on the curb, You took all the color in this world, All the tints, shades and hues of emotion, With you.

Watch the video adaptation here https://youtu.be/a8Xsh-isf5w?list=PLbHrLJewcsQTb05rDtB2lQv0WVzfqhL9_

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The following poem, “Pink,” discusses the issue of domestic violence. If you are a victim of domestic violence--or are worried that someone you know may be a victim--help is available. Please see a school counselor in the Student Services Department. You can also seek assistance through Interact of Wake County. Contact information is listed below.

InterAct of Wake County, North Carolina InterAct is a private, non-profit, United Way agency that provides safety, support, and awareness to victims and survivors of domestic violence and rape/sexual assault. InterAct fulfills this mission through the support of its volunteers and community.

MAIN OFFICE LINE: 919-828-7501 24 HOUR CRISIS LINES: Domestic Violence 919-828-7740 | 866-291-0855 toll-free Sexual Assault 919-828-3005 | 866-291-0853 toll-free Solace Center 919-828-3067 | 866-291-0854 toll-free North Carolina Coalition Against Domestic Violence Information on domestic violence, including links to a safety plan and additional resources to get help: http://www.nccadv.org/get-help/domestic-violenceinformation

Pink Pink, like the blanket that cocooned her after her birth.

Pink, like the tutu she wore every day for a blissfully innocent year.

Pink, like the gloss on her lips as she faked a smile.

Pink, like the nail polish stain on the carpet she couldn’t afford to replace.

Pink, like the flush of her cheeks as he whispered sweet nothings into her ear.

Pink, like the handprints that decorated her neck after he drank.

Pink, like the handle of the knife he used to end her life.

Pink, like the color of her skin as she bled to death.

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like the roses that slowly wilted away over her grave.

Pink.

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How to Describe a Color How to describe a color…

The color blue.

Blue is a feeling, A sound, A sight, A smell.

So what is blue?

The color of sadness?

Or Calm?

Or water?

No… Blue is the fire inside you that burns too hot.

The sound of rain as it gently falls outside your window.

It’s the color of the sky peeking through the trees in stripes and patches.

The color of promises made and broken.

Blue, the color of his eyes as they meet yours from across the room.

It’s the nostalgia that comes when listening to old playlists.

The feeling you get the day after a concert.

The color that reminds you of the ocean and its salty sweet air.

It’s the sound of your hollow heart beating.

The color you whisper even though you feel like screaming.

It’s the pit at the bottom of your stomach.

Blue is the emptiness inside you.

But blue is also the light.

It’s the memories that keep your heart beating And the scars that made you stronger.

So what is the color blue?

It’s a feeling, A sound, A sight, A smell.

Blue is the color of you.

Watch the video adaptation here: https://youtu.be/tmd5YmqPLp4?list=PLbHrLJewcsQTb05rDtB2lQv0WVzfqhL9_ 12 | P a g e

Red Thorns Our love was a deep red, Lively and passionate, Like the rose you gave to me.

Our love was a deep red, Just like the kiss stains sprawled Across your face from my lips.

Our love was a deep red, Like your old car that We would spend hours driving in.

Our love was a deep red, Like your burning face when You were in one of those moods Once again.

Our love was a deep red, Just like my bloodshot eyes That would burn Because of the red words That you spat at me Which dug deep like the Thorns of our flower.

Our love was a deep red, Like the blood stained thorns On our wilted rose.

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The Color Yellow It’s the color of sunbeams cascading through an open window on Sunday morning.

It’s the color of the specks in her golden eyes before you kiss her.

It’s the color of the lemonade that runs down your throat on a scorching hot day.

It’s the color of happiness.

It’s the color of the buttercups that kiss your bare feet in a field of wildflowers.

It is the color of happiness.

It’s the color of joy.

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Shades.

Red. Crimson is the feeling you get after betrayal.

Scarlet is the sound of your heart throbbing so loud you can feel it in your ears.

Brick is the cologne your father wears.

Rose is the delicate sensation of running your fingers along a satin edged blanket.

Orange.

Marmalade is the scent of the jam you used as paint when you were four.

Tangerine is the smell of freshly squeezed citrus poured over ice.

Rust is the feeling of rediscovering an old hobby.

Bronze is the ringing in your head after a night out.

Yellow.

Sand is when your mouth feels full of cotton because you can't find the words to say.

Canary is the giggle of your first born daughter.

Mustard is the sensation of dirt covering your skin, even if it isn’t there.

Butterscotch is the taste of nostalgia and dust covered swing sets.

Green.

Chartreuse is the taste of your first sour candy.

Juniper is the feeling of a new year and new beginnings.

Sage is the scent of your grandmother’s garden.

Olive sounds like your old least favorite song.

Blue.

Cobalt tastes like the first Summer’s Eve. Azure is the smell of salt water taffy and Jolly Ranchers.

Denim feels like long nights at the baseball fields.

Sapphire is the glisten in your child’s eye before a tear falls.

Purple.

Mauve is the taste of your love’s favorite lipstick.

Lilac is the sound of the robins singing at 6 A.M. Boysenberry is the feeling of your mother’s soothing, silk-like voice.

Amethyst is the scent of Spring mornings and daffodils.

Pink.

Blush is the feeling of an entire zoo alive in your stomach.

Flamingo is the sound of laughter over a holiday dinner.

Peach feels like the first day of short-sleeved weather.

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Bubblegum is the scent of sweet innocence and your little sister.

Black.

Raven is the shade of your cousin’s layered locks.

Onyx is the feeling when everything seems to disintegrate beneath you.

Oil is the taste of blood in your mouth when you bite your tongue.

Ink sounds like a tornado howling around you.

Brown.

Mocha feels like home and your cushioned couch.

Hickory smells like floor cleaner and wet socks.

Gingerbread sounds like the giggles of children and smiles of parents.

Cinnamon tastes like the harsh feeling of swallowing your words.

White.

Pearl sounds of wind chimes on your aunt’s front porch.

Ivory smells like a fresh start, a refresh button.

Porcelain is the feeling of utter fragility.

Frost tastes crisp on your tongue.

Grey.

Shadow is the scent of epiphany.

Ash tastes like nights with your brother by the bonfire.

Charcoal sounds like the anger and frustration of unknowingness.

Fog feels like being lost and not knowing where to go.

See the video adaptation here: https://youtu.be/jFTQvoMRcQU?list=PLbHrLJewcsQTb05rDtB2lQv0WVzfqhL9_

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A Secret “Cordelia, tell me a secret.”

“You know, sometimes I feel like I could just accidentally fall off of this roof. Roofs are dangerous. That’s my secret: I’m scared of falling off of this roof.”

He rolled his eyes ever so slightly and smiled at me, not saying anything. His irises looked like the inside of a kiwi fruit, the part way at the base after the fruit has been scraped out with a spoon. It’s almost like the petals of a zinnia flower, long and spindly in a delicate way, or like the segments in an orange on a smaller scale. Just go eat a kiwi fruit and see what I mean.

It would be so much easier. They - his irises - were the color of hazel, whatever that means. To me, it sort of seems like a bunch of molten metals swirled together and stirred up, then mixed with the colors of a deciduous forest and perhaps maybe a tad of REM’s songs, only from the album Green though. I fiddled with my hair a bit, attempting to tie it in a knot. It didn’t work. I let it go, then laid down and stared up at the sky. Deep breath in. I rolled over to face him and sat back up, legs criss-crossed and back straight.

“Okay, Lucas, I hear music when I look at colors. Or maybe I see colors when I listen to music. Yes, that’s it. I see colors when I listen to music, or any sound, really. I listen to Brahms, Symphony No. 3 in F, Op. 90: IV. Allegro, and I see dashes of syrupy gold and the moodiest of blues, the same color as those school desk chairs that seem to be endangered. There are so few of them in every school compared to all the dry, humorless beige ones. The syrupy gold and the moodiest of blues, they are layered over with slight, wispy dots of white and a sort of raspberry color and also thinner lines of maybe a grey? It might sound nightmarish to you, but it is an image of perfection, it is my favourite piece of classical music brought to life, it is an entire world to me. It is soothing and so much better than conventional sight. It’s an entire symphony of colors, just for me. It’s surreal and, and … and PULCHER. Apologies, that’s a Latin word that really has no direct English substitute. It pretty much means a combination of the most beautiful,

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perfect, irreplaceable, precious, and unique ideas/things you know or can’t even imagine. As I said, in my opinion there is no English translation that can possibly be used in its place.

Sometimes, I don’t think I can even imagine an equivalent in my mind because I think in English for the most part, which is sometimes severely limiting.”

Lucas spoke hesitantly, his fingers grazing the roof shingles in a zigzag motion. “So… When I talk, do you see colors?”

“Of course, I see colors for everyone’s voices. Your voice is exceptionally nice. That’s why I was drawn to you all those years ago, in middle school. Your voice is like.. I don’t know.

It’s hard to explain.”

“Try to. I want to know.”

“Don’t do that. You sound sad.”

“What does sadness look like, then?”

His voice had picked up, and he had rearranged his lanky limbs so that he was lying on his side, his face upturned hopefully. A touch of silver moonlight hit his eyebrow and illuminated his eyes.

“Okay, I guess I can tell you that. To me, sadness is the color of mauve, a gentle cloud of mauve hanging in the background of my head, almost too far away to be noticed, though it’s still there. If it were in a painting, it would be overlooked. Imagine the Mona Lisa. Good. Now move your mind’s eye to the tippy-top left hand corner. Out in the distance, and it looks like it is in the distance even though it is literally a smudge of paint right in front of your face, there is a tiny blotch of mauve, a little cloud with an underbelly of a slightly darker purpley hue. That little mauve cloud with the slightly darker underbelly - now it sounds like a horse to me - is what I think of when I think of sadness. Technically, it’s more of an additional feature to what I hear, sort of like a topping for ice cream. Like, there’ll be the main colors of the sounds, then they will be tinged with whatever color the mood seems to be. Something like that… Sorry for being so vague. Hey, you know, now that I’m thinking about it, ‘mauve’ sounds sort of like ‘move’ said in a British accent. Mauve, move, mauve, move, mauve, mauve, mauve 18 | P a g e

mauvemauvemauvemauve.”

He laughed, breathy and soft.

“That was blue. Your laugh, I mean. It’s blue like pastel baby blue. It looks like smoke when you laugh soft like that, but if it’s a loud, guffawing laugh, it’s a little darker and it looks like those comic book speech bubbles that are jagged and like zig zaggy, yaknow? But your voice isn’t blue. Just your laugh.”

“I’m cool with having speech-bubble laugh. Neat.”

I could hear the smile in his voice, in that peculiar way that most everybody can just tell when someone is happy, even when talking over the phone or something.

“That was like. Dusty rose?”

“Aw, that’s cute but um, Cor?” “Yeah?”

“What color is dusty rose?”

“Literally the color of like, blush?”

“Okay, I literally thought mascara was for eyebrows, what do you want from me? Do you think I know what makeup is?”

I could almost picture him throwing both hands up in the air hopelessly.

“Seriously, Lucas? Blush is that powdery pinkish stuff that girls brush onto their cheeks to give them a ‘rosy hue’ or whatever.”

“I’ll take your word for it. So my voice is makeup colored?”

He looked genuinely perplexed. I hid my grin and tried to explain.

“Makeup is every color. It can’t be makeup colored. That was just an example I gave you to explain the color.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You know when the sun is rising and there’s that grayish-pink where the pink is fading into the blue of the sky?”

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“Yeah, kind of?”

“It’s like that. It’s the same color as Pearl Jam and the sound of book pages turning and cats purring. It’s my favorite color.”

I was tracing my fingers on the window screen I had put on the roof next to us when we had climbed out from my bedroom window. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I was sort of anxious- anxious that we would slide off, that it would start raining, that something bad would happen. The sound of my fingers scritching against the mesh of the screen was a deep blue and intense, like when the sky is clear at night in the winter or when you can’t tell if a shirt is navy or black. I felt Lucas grab my hand from the screen and squeeze, and we both leaned back to watch the clouds as they were borne by the gentle night breeze.

His content sigh was aubergine.

I pulled my feet back from the edge of the roof a bit, trying to make myself feel safer. I hummed a snatch of The Cure, letting the notes of my favourite song by them, The Walk, waft up into the sky and brush across my vision as notes the color of mulberrys and broken blue glass bottles and a touch of muted greenish teal, like a darker seafoam shade.The song itself is kind of creepy, but I love it. I think of the pond on what’s left of the farm near where I live whenever I listen to it. I always see the pond in my thoughts as if it exists only at night, ringed in a deep, deep green smokey… no, more misty aura and seeming as ethereal as anything can possibly be. That’s not part of my synesthesia, just something that I happen to think of. It’s peaceful.

I feel my fingers stop itching to reach for the screen, start pressing the knuckles of Lucas’ hand one at a time, like piano keys. I picture the notes, but there is no color. I know what colors they should be, though, and that is enough. A bat zooms overhead, cavorting in circles and just barely visible against the dark backdrop, emitting bright lemon squeaks. The chirp of crickets is salmon-y, and overruns the vague-ish pastel blue of Lucas’ breathing. It’s weird that his breathing and his soft laughter are the same color, but I guess they are similar enough: both 20 | P a g e

are soft and both are breathy - especially his breathing, since, you know, it’s breathing - just overall nice to see and hear. It’s like one of those two-for-one deals that you can get at the grocery store, except better because it lasts forever. My fingers continued tapping out a random string of imaginary notes across his knuckles, my feet joining in against the rooftop.

“You okay over there, Cor?” I nodded, leaning my head onto his shoulder. His heartbeat was dark pink and made me feel warm in the chilly night air, and it became my lullaby as I drifted in and out of consciousness, my drowsiness taking my no longer secret’s place in the front of my mind.

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The following poem, “This Poem is Not About Suicide,” discusses the issues of suicide and mental health concerns. If you have feelings or thoughts of hurting yourself, or know a friend who has these thoughts, please do not wait to seek help. If you are aware of these concerns while at school, please see a school counselor in Student Services immediately. If you are at home, please tell a trusted adult right away, or call 911 if it's an emergency. Below you can find contact information for additional helpful resources.

Hopeline over-the-phone crisis counseling and suicide intervention service 24-Hour Crisis Line: 919-231-4525.

The National Suicide Hotline (24 hours): 1-800-SUICIDE. Lifeline (24 hours): 1-800-273-8255.

Holly Hill Hospital (24 hours): 919-250-7000.

UNC Crisis and Assessment crisis service number: 919-966-4131.

Strategic Behavioral Center emergency number (24 hours): 919-800-4400.

UNC Crisis and Assessment at Wakebrook emergency number (24 hours): 984-974-4830.

Alliance Behavioral Health (8:30-5:15, M-F): 919-651-8500.

Therapeutic Alternatives, Inc. 24-Hour Crisis Line: 1-877-626-1772; Mobile Unit: 919-799-0701.

American Association of Suicidology: www.suicidology.org American Foundation for Suicide Prevention: www.afsp.org For emergency medical treatment, dial 911 or go to your local hospital.

This Poem is Not About Suicide This poem is not about suicide.

It’s about the colors of life.

It's about the rainbow and every shade in between.

This poem is not about suicide.

It's about the reds: The anger, so much anger, “Why can't you just get better?”

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And “Why can't you just be happy?”

This poem is not about suicide.

It's about the oranges: That feeling when your stomach drops in an elevator, “Just cheer up!”

Or “It's not that bad.”

This poem is not about suicide.

It's about the yellows: The sunshine you never know is there Because you can't summon the energy to leave your bed, “You sleep too much.”

And “Why are you so tired all the time?”

This poem is not about suicide.

It's about the greens: The grass you knot your fingers in, Hoping it will hold you down and keep you there as a grip on reality, “Anxiety’s not real, you made it up.”

Or “You’re just being overdramatic.”

This poem is not about suicide.

It's about the blues: The pulsating siren song of death, Luring you into an ocean of silence, “Why don’t you speak up?”

And “Don’t you trust me?”

This poem is not about suicide.

It’s about the purples: The forget-me-nots lying on a grave, Wilting in the summer heat “If only we had known!”

Or “We could have done something!”

This is a poem about suicide.

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They’d prefer not to talk about it But the colors of pain and suffering Are a rainbow too dark to forget.

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My Odd Awkward Quirky Obsession (Season Finale) Scene 1 (Opening theme and title credits roll, the screen fades to reveal BROCK LEE staring at a brick wall away from the camera) BROCK LEE: Welcome to an all new episode of “My Odd Awkward Quirky Obsession”! This episode we’re going to be looking at a chick who eats crayons! Isn’t that weird?!?!

CAMERA GUY: (whispers as he motions the camera) Uhhh, Brock, we’re filming this way.

BROCK LEE: (Turns ninety degrees to the right, still not facing the camera)Oh my bad!

Anyways,today we’ll be traveling out to Possumneck, Mississippi!

CAMERA GUY: (whispers, and motions his camera again) Brock...uhhhh, you are still facing the wrong direction…

BROCK LEE: (finally faces the right direction, runs over and shakes the camera as he speaks in an enthusiastic tone) LET’S GO!!!!!!!

Scene 2 (Screen transitions to reveal scenic shots of Possumneck, the scene then changes to JOHANNA JO JOHNSON briskly walking down a country road at dusk) JOHANNA JO JOHNSON: My name is Johanna Jo Johnson, I like puppies, long romantic walks on the beach, and by the way I’m addicted to eating everything colorful.

(Scene switches to JOHANNA’S PARENTS in her living room,there are large bites taken out of the sofa and the curtain behind them.)

JOHANNA’S FATHER: (Wipes a tear from his eye) The last couple years have been so tough for this family, Johanna has lost her job sixty-seven times. Mostly for trying to eat her fellow

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employee’s shirts. (Breaks into a sob) It wasn’t until we got our new cat...it was a ginger tabby... (Begins to cry into JOHANNA’S MOTHER’s shoulder) JOHANNA’S MOTHER: (Pushes JOHANNA’S FATHER off her shoulder) She ate our cat, she ate our IKEA couch, she ate my technicolor version of “Wizard of Oz”. This girl is a monster! We are so happy and lucky that Brock Lee has offered his time and effort to help end our daughter’s odd awkward quirky obsession!

Scene 3 (BROCK LEE and JOHANNA are sitting face to face in a dimly lit room, there is a table in the middle of the two characters. The room looks similar to a police interrogation room) BROCK LEE: Johanna, there are four stages of addiction. We’re going to start off with the first: “experimentation”. How did you start experimenting with colorful materials?

JOHANNA: Well, you see Brock…it all started when I was a teenager…

BROCK LEE: (Pulls out a pillow and a night mask) Go on, I’m listening.

JOHANNA: I worked at a store that only sold sprinkles! And I loved sprinkles!

BROCK LEE: (Puts on night mask and rest head on pillow, begins heavily snoring) JOHANNA: I just loved the colors that sprinkles added my food, so I thought “why not add more color?” So one night when I was home alone I decided I would make the world’s most largest sprinkle on the face of the world! So I grabbed everything in the house that was colored red and put them all together and put it all on top of some red velvet ice cream. I couldn’t get enough, Brock! Soon I ate everything in the house colored blue and so on and so on!

BROCK LEE: (Lifts eye mask, sits up and rubs eyes) So now we’ll move on to the second stage...social use. How did you begin to use this item socially? (yawing) 26 | P a g e

JOHANNA: You see Brock, I would always carry a box of crayons in my purse whenever I went.

Whenever my boyfriend would give me colorful flowers I couldn’t resist munching down on them in front of him! I lost a lot of my friends, and my family began to think I was odd.

BROCK LEE: (Looks up from reading a magazine) Okay! Okay! I didn’t want your life story! Let’s move on to stage three: “Risky Use”...

JOHANNA: I began to get sneakier and sneakier about it…

BROCK LEE: Okay! Great story!

JOHANNA: Excuse me Brock!I wasn’t finished!

BROCK LEE: Yeah I know...Anyway we’ll just skip the fourth step to save some time and prevent boredom! On to our main event challenge.

JOHANNA: Wait, what? I wasn’t finished!

Scene 5: (Scene changes to a large obstacle course full of multiple challenges) BROCK LEE: Ok! For this challenge you will have to make it through the patch of colorful cacti and speed through the alley of poisonous dart frogs! Then you will have to dodge the bowls of fruit salad while ziplining down into the colorful kiddie pool.

JOHANNA: Brock...this wasn’t in the contract…

BROCK LEE: Contract,schmontract! It adds show appeal! On your mark…get set…go!!!!

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(There is a lot of screaming in the scene and after a while JOHANNA crawls her way in front of BROCK LEE. Soaking wet, smothered fruit, and stuck with cacti. She wheezes and collapses on the ground) BROCK LEE: In record time! Now it’s time for the big reveal!

Scene 4 BROCK LEE: Ok! Mr and Mrs.Johnson! I have used my special technique on your daughter and she should be fixed! So let’s MOVE... THAT... Honda Civic!

(The small silver sedan pulls away to reveal Johanna on the ground gasping for air) JOHANNA: I...need...a...hospital…

JOHANNA’S FATHER: What have you done to our daughter?! Is that a cactus on her?

JOHANNA’s MOTHER: You lied! You said you’d return her back to normal!

BROCK LEE: (looks into the camera) Okay! That was the season finale of the show! (The Honda Civic drives up and he gets in the passenger’s side) Check out my other new show airing: “My Pet Rock Makeover Extreme Edition”! Goodbye friends!

CAMERA GUY: (Shaking the camera as he dashes towards BROCK LEE) Hey Brock wait up! Don’t forget about me!

(The car’s tires squeal as it speeds away, it unluckily speeds straight into a telephone pole. After a few seconds Brock Lee opens the door and scrambles out of the car, running into the horizon) JOHANNA’S PARENTS: (Chasing after the BROCK LEE) You fraud! Come back!

CAMERA GUY: (Turns the camera around to reveal his face) That’s a wrap folks!

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(Ending credits roll) FIN

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Crayon Colorings It’s the first day of kindergarten, And you have never felt so happy.

Laughing and playing and making friends.

Sharing cookies and paints and love.

There is love all around.

You don’t know life to be any other way.

You and your friends, All the twenty three other students, Take out your sixteen crayons And begin coloring self portraits.

But you hesitate.

How do you color your skin?

You are not the chalky white crayon that is only used to draw the fluffy clouds.

Nor the bright peach reflecting off the sun, the one everyone else seems to use.

Nor the beautiful black that some prefer, while drawing perfectly inside the lines.

You are not the joyful yellow nor burning orange nor fire red.

You are not the alien green, or misty blue, though woah, imagine blue.

You are a stunning brown, as brown as your chocolate eyes, As brown as the plush teddy bear your sister handed you on your third birthday.

But no one is using brown So why should you?

You don’t want to stand out.

Not like this.

And so you grab the peach crayon and scribble.

You don’t notice it going over the lines.

And though it doesn’t look like you, There is nothing you can do.

Years pass, And you forget of the drawings and the twenty three friends.

Life passes by, and suddenly You are almost done with high school.

And reality is about to set in.

Nostalgia ensues, and you reach for your memory box.

You glance at the awkward middle school photos And smile, remembering the good old days of elementary school.

Suddenly, you find it.

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Your self portrait.

You remember how confused you felt.

And though you are still confused about many things, You are no longer confused about this, About the color of your skin.

You do not hide your tan, beautiful skin, Which matches your hazel-tinted brown eyes, An infinite pool of chocolate.

You do not mask your skin with peach crayons, Or white or black or yellow or orange or red Nor green nor purple nor blue (but woah, blue).

You remember your parents and your aunts and uncles and grandparents, Your cousins and brothers and sisters, and They all share the same beautiful hue as you.

You remember the history of your parent’s land, And what they sacrificed, Just for you to keep your language and culture and that brown skin.

That brown skin that you used to be confused about.

But no longer.

You reach for your little brother’s crayons, And draw one last time.

You sketch yourself as you are now: Older, mature, knowing.

Proud, dignified, content.

You reach for the brown crayon, barely used Except to color in the bark of trees or the dirt under the blossoming flowers.

But now, all that remains is a stub of the crayon.

Lightly shading, lightly sketching, You color in different shades of brown.

Your eyes, a blend of hazel and dark brown, So dark you cannot see the depth within.

Your hair, as black as your mother’s and her mother’s, bouncing off the sun’s rays And most importantly, Your skin, as brown as it was at age six, as brown as it will be in seventy years.

And now, there is no hesitation.

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There are no pauses.

When you are done, you finally see yourself Reflected in your crayon coloring.

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Colorpop Emma Peterson wrote the date in her notebook: “April 10th, 1965”. She sighed and looked up at the board that read “Periodic Table: Arrangement of Chemical Elements.” In Emma’s mind, everyday is the same thing. The world isn’t full of rainbow colors like red, orange or yellow. It’s pure black and white. It’s bland and no excitement comes out of NYU. The professor put down his chalk and turned to the class.

“Alright students, this topic is essential for predicting the chemical and physical properties of elements,” “All I hear is bunch of mumble jumble coming out of his mouth,” said Emma’s friend Elizabeth, who sits right beside her.

“Tell me about it, all I keep focusing on is his pointy nose,” said Amy, also Emma’s friend, who sits next to Elizabeth.

“This is not how I envisioned NYU, I thought it would be like fireworks but nooo! It’s as dull as a rock,” Emma said.

After forty-five long minutes, the bell rung and everyone rushed out of the class. “Well, we finally made it through the week,” said Amy. “I know. I should’ve just gone to St. John’s University,” said Emma.

“No, I kinda like NYU better,” said Elizabeth.

“Yeah? How? We have to read eighty pages a night and we have ten-page essay due by Monday. How exactly is NYU any better than St. John’s University?” said Emma.

“She’s right,” Amy agreed.

“Well...there’s a party tonight hosted by Brittany Hart. She booked a huge hall at a hotel,” said Elizabeth.

“Yeah, that’ll solve my grades,”Amy said sarcastically.

“Brittany? God, we haven’t talked since high school. We’re sophomores now and she wouldn’t even bother to come talk to me,”said Emma.

“You were friends with Brittany?!?” Amy asked, shocked..

“Yeah, we were some of the arrogant girls in high school. I changed a lot coming here.

Brittany definitely seems the same,” Emma said.

The three girls went to their dorms and laid down on their beds. Amy was reading her chemistry book, Emma was sleeping, and Elizabeth was staring at the ceiling above. There was a knock on their door. Elizabeth got up and opened the door. A girl dressed in a pink velvet dress with a handful of envelopes in her hand stood at the door, patiently waiting.

“Hi, does Emma live in this dorm?” the girl asked.

“Yeah she’s sleeping. Why?” Elizabeth said.

“I’m Brittany Hart. Emma’s old high school friend? I just happened to be passing out invitations to my party tonight and one of the ladies downstairs told me where she is,” said Brittany.

“Oh okay, I’ll just hold the invitation for her,” said Elizabeth.

“If you want, I can give a couple of invitations for you and your friends. After all, you’re Emma’s friend,” said Brittany.

“Uhhh..I’m not sure. I’ll hold on to some of them if I decide to go,” said Elizabeth as she took some invitations from Brittany.

“Here you go. Enjoy the party tonight,” said Brittany as she walked to the hallways.

After a while, Emma woke up and Amy was talking to Elizabeth. “Elizabeth! What were you thinking?!?” Amy shouted.

“What? I thought this is what we all wanted,” said Elizabeth.

“I am never gonna finish my essay on time! You know that I’m a slow worker,” said Amy.

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“Come on Amy, we all need a break and let loose sometimes. We haven’t been to a party since last year. Which, by the way, was horrible since Danny DeVito spilled Dr. Pepper all over your orange skirt,” said Elizabeth.

“Yeah, doesn’t make me feel any better about the party,” mumbled Amy. “Relax guys, Elizabeth’s right. College is supposed to be fun. Yeah, it’s a ton more work than high school but we’re going to regret later,” said Emma.

“Please Amy, will you come with us?” Elizabeth said.

Amy sighed deeply. “Fine, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to out for one night,” They all hugged each other with excitement.

As the three girls walked into the hotel, their eyes widened. There were guys and girls dancing around with sodas in their hands. The music was so loud that the hotel manager had to come several times to ask to keep the volume down. “Emma!” Brittany shouted, walking to hug Emma.

“Brittany! It’s been so long,” Emma replied, hugging Brittany back tightly. While Brittany and Emma were talking, Amy and Elizabeth were dancing around. Amy was wearing a pink dress and Elizabeth was in her favorite light blue dress. After Emma said goodbye to Brittany, she came to Elizabeth and Amy. “You guys having fun?” Emma asked.

“Yeah, this is one of the best parties ever!” Amy replied. Then, the music slowly transitioned to “Do you wanna dance?” by the Beach Boys.

“Oh my god! I love this song!”said Emma. As they all danced together with laughter and happiness, Emma finally saw the colors she has been looking for. Emma no longer see the world as the dull black and white, she see the rainbow of happiness after she finally realize that life is worth it with laughter.

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Tell Me How The Colors Are My brother Colton and I have always come to this bench, ever since I can remember. It’s in Jefferson Park, right in the heart of downtown Columbus Ohio. We are surrounded by vintage shops and boutiques, with a few “exotic” coffee houses. In the winter, everything is pale and sharp, and in the summer everything is vivid. At the moment, it’s a Wednesday in mid October and I am sitting on the wooden bench across from the pond with Colton, per usual.

“Hey, Tori?” Colton inquires.

“Hmm?” I said, cocking my head towards him.

“What are the colors like?” He mutters as he turns his head towards mine.

“What do you mean?”

“What are they like? What does blue feel like and how does red taste? I can’t see them so I want to know them in other ways.” Colton says, as he adjusts his useless sunglasses, he hasn’t been able to see since he was born.

I paused, thinking a moment, then answered Colton. “Blue is sadness, the pain you feel when fall down and scrape your knee. It’s the feel of new denim under your fingers, the sharp burn of a broken heart. Blue is the feeling of rain pouring on your supple skin. That is what blue is like.” I explain, as I gently grab his hand and place it on his denim jacket.

“And yellow?”

“Yellow is the feeling of the sun’s warm rays on your winter skin, the way a popsicle tastes on a hot, hot day. It’s the feeling you get when you smell home and fresh laundry, or the feeling when you remember an old game you played as a child. It’s the feeling of a warm towel and satin pajamas. Yellow is light and joyful and pure.”

“Hmm. Red?” He asked, his hands rubbing his jacket as he stared off into the distance trying to imagine the tastes, feelings, textures, sounds and smells I described.

“Red can be anger, the feeling you get when you feel like punching someone, when your fist clenches so tight you swear it may break.. It's also what you feel when you’re with someone you love. Red tastes like a strawberry popsicle or a sour cherry. Red is the bright warmth of being near a fire. It’s the smell of smoke and the feel of fireworks booming in your chest.”

“What about grey?”

“Grey is a in-between feeling, a numb feeling. Grey is the sensation when your feet move beneath you even though you aren’t telling them to walk, the scent of freshly fallen rain. It’s is the sound of silence when there is so much to be said but you don’t have the words, the feeling of being alone in a room full of people. Grey is your heartbeat, slowly becoming nothing but a constant sound.”

“Oh... can you tell me about purple?”

“Purple is the softness of a rose petal on your skin, the velvety feel of a cat’s fur under your fingers. Purple is sometimes cold, what you feel when someone insults you and you don’t the words to defend yourself. It’s comforting feeling of your favorite blanket around your shoulders. It’s the sound of a violin playing a perfect minuet. The taste of ripe summer blueberries bursting on your tongue and the first bite of a peach in July.”

“What about white?”

“White? Are you sure?” I question, unsure as to why my brother would ask about such a bland color.

“Yes, I’m sure. Tell me!” Colton insists.

“I mean, white is like a blank slate. White feels pure and crisp, kind of like when you get out of a long shower. It’s the feeling of a second chance and it smells like freshly fallen snow on Christmas Eve. White sounds like the pages of a book being turned and it tastes like home.”

“And orange?”

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“Orange is the feeling of pumpkin insides all over your hands, the excitement of dressing up for Halloween. The smell of spices and homemade, delicious thanksgiving food. It’s the sound and satisfaction of dry leaves crunching under your shoes and the bite of the cold when you go outside. The feeling of joy when you jump into a pile of raked leaves. It’s warm and bouncy, what you feel when you hear one of your favourite songs on the radio and just have to sing along.”

“Green?” Colton urges excitedly.

“I thought you’d never ask. Green is the smell of summer and the scent of sunscreen. It’s the taste of iced tea and all things salted. Green is the feeling of weight lifting off your chest.

Green sounds like children playing aimlessly and nature calling. Green can also be envious, though. It can become the feeling when you don’t get the role you wanted or when you worked so hard but didn’t get the credit you deserve. Green can be the scent of ink all over your hands as you try to figure out what to do.”

“What about pink?”

“Pink is the blush of your first crush and the fuzziness you feel when you’re so tired, you can’t keep your eyes open no matter how hard you try. Pink is the smell of salt at the beach, the sweet taste of candy. It’s when you’re warm and cozy at home wearing your comfiest pajamas curled up with your favourite book in braille. The sugary taste of warm caramel and cold ice cream together. It’s how you feel when you get the best gift. Pink is the sticky, fluffy cotton candy on your hands.”

“There is only one more it’s all I see, but can you still try?” Colton says has he fumbles with his fingers, clearly trying to remember every color he has heard of.

“And what color would that be?” I say, fearing what I know he will say.

“Black.”

“I’ll do my best,” I replied and thought a bit. “Black is the scent of fresh ink on a whiteboard and paint across walls. Black is the feeling of eternal slumber and never wanting to wake. It sounds like the silence that rings in your ears and it feels like icy cold metal.It tastes like licorice and marshmallows. It’s listening to the sounds of the night when you’re falling asleep.”

“Is that all the colors?”

“There’s actually one more.”

“Really? What is it?”

“Brown. Do you want to hear about it?”

“Of course!”

“Brown is the taste of the darkest, richest chocolate. It’s the soothing rumble of a cat’s purr and the scent of new mulch. Brown is the roughness of sandpaper against your skin, the pounding of hammers putting in a nail. The tickling of your hair on your neck and the whisper of the wind when you’re walking through a forest. The sharp tang of blood in your mouth when you bite your tongue.”

“I think I like purple the best. Maybe red. What about you, Tori?”

“I like them all, to be honest. If I had to choose, though, it’d be green. I like the way it can be two very different feelings.”

“What color am I?” “Hmm?” “What color am I? Am I blue or red or grey?”

“You, Colton, are not one single color.”

“I have to be a color. Everyone has to be a color.”

“You are several colors. Your eyes are the blue you hear during a summer thunderstorm and your hair is the brown you taste when you bite into a Hershey’s. Your laugh is the pink feeling of warm blankets and your laugh tastes like the yellow of fresh citrus. Your determination is the black you smell from fresh dry erase markers and your compassion is the orange you feel

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from the warmth of the sun. You are more colors than any person with sight could ever imagine.”

Colton opens his mouth to say something but before he could utter a word, a ringtone starts up. I quickly realize it’s my phone, see that it’s our mom calling, and tell Colton it’s her before putting it on speaker.

“Hey! How are you guys?” Our mom asks, as she does everyday around this time.

“Great, it’s beautiful out today.” I say.

“Dinner is soon, be home in half an hour, okay?” She says excitedly. She must’ve made her famous potato casserole or spaghetti.

“Sounds good.”

“Love you!” She squeezes in before I hang up.

“Love you more.” I reply, knowing she may not have heard me but knowing she knows it anyway.

Once Colton hears that I’ve hung up, he shifts his body towards me and says two simple words as a gentle smile spreads across his delicate face.

“Thank you.”

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The Missing Puzzle Piece Imagine that you are doing a puzzle, and you have spent weeks trying to perfectly match up all of the pieces and colors to make a masterpiece, but you find that at the end there is one piece missing. There is no sea foam green piece to blend into the scenery of the picture you are trying to create. That’s how I see autism; a beautiful work of art that just happens to be missing one piece. Each missing piece is different for each person: some are big, some small, some are blue and others are orange or yellow or any other color you can think of. My brother’s just happens to be a crimson red, the kind of red you would see in a fire just before the last flame goes out. The color changes as he does, when he was younger it was more yellow and calm but as he got older it turned to a lively crimson. My brother is just like every other sixteen year old; he rides a bus to school, eats an enormous amount of food, and he does chores; his only difference is that one missing piece. Most people don’t see it that way. All they see is the missing piece, they ignore the rest of the masterpiece. Sometimes even I’m guilty of that. I only see that one phantom red piece. I see it when he throws a fit because he can’t tell us what is wrong, I see it when my family has to stay home with him because he can’t leave the house, I see it when he eats the last of my Halloween candy. However, there are times, though not as often as it should be, when I see the rest of the beautiful colors that come together to make the artwork that is my brother. Others don’t see the blue piece that comes when he jumps on the trampoline and laughs like a maniac or the pink one that comes from the grin he has when he gets to eat ice cream before dinner or even the orange one that appears when he walks around singing (more like screeching) along to “Wagon Wheel”.

I used to never see the missing piece. When I was younger I didn’t understand what autism was, all I knew was that my brother didn’t talk. Back then there wasn’t any spectrum, he was just my brother. I don’t remember ever being told my brother had autism, he was just my brother. His piece was a very pale yellow back then, the kind of yellow you see in dandelions in the spring. It wasn’t as noticeable; if he threw a fit in the store everyone just saw him as a normal two year old. No one stared, no one ostracized him. As he got older his piece became larger and a darker red until he couldn’t even go to the pool without someone making a comment. It’s just going to get worse, his piece will continue to get bigger and darker as he gets older and people will continue to ignore the rest of him. I wish I could make everyone see the other colors, the other pieces of him. People tend to ignore what they have in common with him, like how he hates going shopping or likes to sleep in. I guess it’s easier for everyone to see differences rather than similarities. It’s easier to walk around thinking we are better because we pretend to have all of our pieces. My brother can’t pretend to be complete, but even if he could why should he? He still has all those other beautiful colors, why should he be treated as less of a person just because he is missing a red piece?

Watch the video adaptation here: https://youtu.be/xVIzOyNROuU?list=PLbHrLJewcsQTb05rDtB2lQv0WVzfqhL9_

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Blank Canvas My life has been one huge adventure, filled with tremendous failures, some achievements, and horrid embarrassments. When I was a little girl, I learned how to tie my little light up tennis shoes, with each step they flashed their brilliant colors. I sang my little lungs out, screaming the lyrics of my favorite song , hoping that maybe Mariah Carey would hear me, and sing along. I learned how to brush my hair, I learned how to call someone, I learned how to read, and I even learned how to write. But I never learned how to move on.

Going to school is dreadful. High school is dreadful. The teachers, the students don’t know me at all. I hear them whispering, the “She wasn’t like this before”, the “She’s changed a lot”, and “Her grades just aren’t like what they could be.” The truth is, I know all these things are true, but I don’t need other people telling me that. I remember walking into my first period class one day, oblivious to the surroundings around me. Mrs.Jones teaches that class and I remember hearing students tell Mrs.Jones how pretty she looked, but I don’t remember how she looked. I don’t remember the color of the dress she was wearing. Was it purple, pink,or blue?

The world has become dark, the colors drained from it, taking away all the joy with them. No more happy yellows, sad blues, or passionate reds.

Mrs.Jones noticed that I had fallen completely apart, but she didn’t know why. “Blanca you should go speak with the guidance counselor”she constantly reminded me. I don’t listen, I never listen. That drives my mother absolutely insane. My mom works two jobs just to support me and my younger siblings. My crap isn’t helping her. My mom is taking things better that I am, which is surprising, but not surprising because she is strong. Unlike me; I am not strong. I never have been, and never will be.

Walking home for the first time was the worst. I walk on a bridge over a creek, but it was silent that day. The water was rushing by like normal , but it was as if it had gotten replaced by fire, its transcending beauty gone to me. I’ve tried. I really have. I even tried painting, but I am

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not the same. I can’t see what I am trying to paint, and what I have accomplished looks like one big gray glob. I work on it everyday, as soon as I wake up, hoping that the colors will come rushing back. They never do.

Jeremy, a boy that I go to school with annoys me everyday, but I know he cares. We met in the fifth grade. Fifth grade was an awkward phase when I did really stupid things, said stupid things, and got suspended. Jeremy was not a close friend, but he was a friend. During school he secretly took snapchats of me, to my own annoyance, and called me best friend any chance he got. When I went in the lunch line he used to yell“Hey, best friend,” when I went to class he would run up behind me and go “Hey, best friend,” if I went out for a jog, and he would yell from yards away “HEY, BEST FRIEND.” I never responded. I’m not his best friend. Maybe he thought I was stuck up. That tends to happen when people try to talk to me nowadays.

My English class took a field trip downtown, and a piano player was set up on one of the street corners. I guess the keys didn’t work, because I couldn’t hear them, despite the energy flowing out of every pore of that musician. English was a mess. I did half of the assignment, turned it in, got back a barely passing grade, and repeat. I think that killed my mom more than anything, because she’s was losing me too.

My least favorite class is Economics. I needed something to fill up my schedule so I took it. Big mistake. Mr. Brown is hands down the worst teacher I have ever had. He called me out in front of the entire class for not stapling something in the correct order. The way he said it brought emotion pouring back into me. A flash a red came rushing back to me for the first time in a long time, but it was gone as quickly as it came. The grays came back, and the world was cast in shadow again. I now make sure to staple my things correctly, but staple it upside down , so the ticks point up. I still manage to maintain my passive aggressiveness even now. I hoped that the red would come back, but when I went back to my piece the next morning, it was still a blank canvas, no color present anywhere.

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Mrs.Jones and my mom had meetings that I didn’t know about. Suprise! I now had to go to therapy! How not excited I was. Going to therapy was what I imagined going to prison is like.The room was bland and dark. I met some middle aged lady. She told me her name was Laynah Shard, and I couldn't help but think what a stupid name that is. I didn’t say that outloud though. I have been to therapy before, but none of it has worked in the past. My first therapy session was when I was ten, when I was going through that awkward “I'm a cool kid”phase. I finally broke out of it, but no thanks to the therapy. I guess that's why I was surprised when Miss. Shard turned out to be half decent.

She asked me how I felt and all the standard procedure questions, but it's the little mind games that she played that got me. She knew things about me, things that I did not tell her. We talked about my little brother, and how things were at home without him. It was nice to have someone to talk to. Mrs.Jones is nice, but I have to watch what I say, or else i’ll get sent to the principal's office. I can’t cuss in front of Mrs.Jones, but I can rant on in front of Miss Shard. She doesn’t like it, but I won’t get in trouble for it. After a couple weeks of therapy, during one session she broke me. I felt something wet on my face, and blues started coming back to my vision. I was crying! I didn’t remember when the last time I cried was. I was in complete shock, as I could finally see the color of the bright blue walls.

My mom didn’t say anything on the drive home. We passed the same piano player, and I finally heard his sad song and I cried with it. For the first time in a year, I finally felt something.

Going to therapy slowly brought the colors back. The reds , the oranges, the violets all came back. The only color missing was yellow. When I looked at my piece, I could see a form , but wasn’t sure what it was. My mom is thrilled at my improvement. Unfortunately my grades were not reflecting that. I barely passed Economics, and my other classes are nowhere near what they should have been.

Bringing back my report card from school sucked. I can clearly remember my mom’s look of disappointment. I was expecting her to ground me, but she didn’t. She just told me to 41 | P a g e

“Do better next quarter.” I guess she is cutting me some slack considering my improvement. I can’t remember what yellow looks like. I close my eyes and think about it, but nothing comes to mind. Months pass by and I still don’t see it. Will I be like this for the rest of my life? I hope not.

I haven't looked at my social media accounts in ages. I really don’t care about the food Joanna Johnson is eating or how many pounds Uncle Mike has lost. After months of going in the dark, I finally logged back in. I had thirty-three friend requests, one hundred twenty-six notifications, and tons of posts on my profile. All of them basically read, “I am so sorry” and “He was such a good kid”. I checked my friend requests and accept Jeremy’s. I will probably regret that later. I checked my messages and one made me freeze in my tracks. It reads, “BLANCA! BLANCA! YOU CRAZY BLANCA!” I burst out laughing. I laugh so hard my head hurts. The message was dated from over a year ago, from my little brother. His name was Christopher. I miss those stupid little messages. As I laugh the sun’s yellow seems to become brighter.

YELLOW! For a second I could see yellow. I try smiling and it comes back.

I told Miss Shard what happened and she told me how great that was. Since then I didn’t see that much yellow, except for that brief moment. The happiness was short lasting, but it felt so good to have that feeling back, even if it was temporary. When Jeremy takes snapchats of me now, I willingly participate and make funny faces while doing that. When I saw him walking to his car, I screamed at the top of my lungs “HEY BEST FRIEND”, and he whipped his head around and laughed. He came running back to me and hugged me. I’m finally coming back to my old self.

As the weeks passed by and I talked to Miss Shard more, my colors started sticking around longer. Yellow was slowly creeping back to me. My grades were slowly making a comeback, except economics (not my fault). I still struggle, and some days I lose some of the colors again. Maybe I can start over, and create my own palette of colors? I kept looking at my piece, and finally it all came together. My blank canvas was no longer blank anymore, it was

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filled with vibrant colors. The blues, the reds, the yellows all came together , with the face of my smiling brother.

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Rainbows over North Carolina I am walking down Duval Street in the middle of Key West, when I see rainbow flags waving in the warm spring air.

I am happy to see the flags that always mean pride.

But the flag reminds me of the new law, House Bill 2, a law that my fellow North Carolinians are suffering under.

A law I was running from that glorious night, enjoying the freedom of a vacation.

But even in Key West, the colors of the flag, each color of the blessed rainbow, reminded me of the emotional effects of that condemning law First comes the red, red like rage.

Rage over hearing that Transgender men and women are forced into public accommodations that will only cause them harm.

Forcing them into bathrooms, into situations, that might- that have lead to too many trans women dying from men’s anger at their existence.

I listen to trans women online as they cry “how could the governor want trans women in North Carolina, want us, dead so much?”

I don’t have an answer that will cool the fire of rage pulsing through their veins.

How could I? This question stays unanswered As we move to orange, the color of 44 | P a g e

the governor’s joy knowing that the government of North Carolina succeeded in hurting as many people as possible.

Knowing that in North Carolina, There are out trans kids in college, in high school, in middle school, in elementary school, who will have to grow up too fast.

Who will have to learn how to deal with bullying and harassment before they learn how to vote for a governor other than ours.

The non-existent joy of knowing the state is hurting not just the children of North Carolina, but also the elderly, the small business owners, and the minorities of the state.

Orange like the orange juice my family makes in the cottage in the Florida Keys, orange like the sun setting over a state where at least half of us have more rights.

Rights like being able to go out in the yellow sunshine without fear of being kicked out of any restaurant we see.

Yellow like the hair of the first girl I fell in love with.

Yellow like the sunlight outside of restaurants, movie theaters, cake shops, apartments, and employment opportunities That will kick me and the girl I love out.

This is only because we are out and out and about trying to be happy.

Trying to fall in love, Trying to be in love, In a state that thinks we deserve to be poor and homeless and alone.

Alone like a lone tree With bright early spring green leaves 45 | P a g e

Next to Equality NC’s headquarters.

The green of tree leaves and The green of Equality NC’s website.

The green of the letters on the protest signs the activists hold up as they chain themselves to each other, promising not to move until the law is repealed.

Green like the grass outside of Governor McCrory’s lawn the day activists delivered a porta-potty there to prove a point.

Green like the grass in front of North Carolina’s high schools as future activists decry the bill.

Using sarcasm to explain how defining biological sex, a medical fact, by a legal document would only cause pain to our already hurting state.

Pain that won’t only affect The transgender or LGBT+ People of our state But everyone as if it is A blue sky stretching above us.

Because before the end of the rainbow, just above the last color, comes blue.

Blue, the emotion that spreads as if it were a ripple in a pond across the state.

Blue, the color of the sky above a restaurant where a single mother of three is working her first job of the day.

She cries blue tears as she hears that the state forbids her town from requiring the raise of her wage above $7.25.

She starts almost begging for tips. $15,080 doesn’t come close to supporting four people for a year.

Purple is the last.

Purple, the color of the keyboard 46 | P a g e

I type this poem with.

This poem, a collection of North Carolinians perspectives.

The perspectives of all Who will be hurt by This law.

This law that will leave Purple marks on us, Bruises and combinations Of fear, hurt, and pain.

Purple also symbolizes royalty, Reminding us that we Will one day lead this state To be a pioneer Of love, hope, and equality.

Sources used for information on the law: North Carolina House Bill Two: http://www.ncleg.net/Sessions/2015E2/Bills/House/PDF/H2v1.pdf Michael Gordon, Mark S. Price, and Katie Peralta. “Understanding HB2: North Carolina’s newest law solidifies state’s role in defining discrimination” The Charlotte Observer. March 26, 2016. http://www.charlotteobserver.com/news/politics-government/article68401147.html

Watch the video adaptation here: https://youtu.be/gehv3Z3p2EY?list=PLbHrLJewcsQTb05rDtB2lQv0WVzfqhL9_

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In Another Hue

"Over The Rainbow Somewhere over the rainbow way up high There's a land that I heard of once in a lullaby Somewhere over the rainbow skies are blue And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true Someday I'll wish upon a star And wake up where the clouds are far Behind me Where troubles melt like lemon drops Away above the chimney tops That's where you'll find me Somewhere over the rainbow bluebirds fly Birds fly over the rainbow. Why then, oh, why can't I? If happy little bluebirds fly Beyond the rainbow why, oh, why can't I?” “Sia, dear will you please quiet down now, your father is trying to sleep.” Yelled my mom from the bottom of the staircase. “Okay, mom!” I yell down the stairs as I close my doors.

“Hi, my name is Fuchsia Infinity and I am 20 years old. Despite what I just told my mom I will probably continue singing just to annoy them. My parents are so annoying, but isn’t that what every teenager says about their parents? Anyway, back to the things at hand. It’s currently 3pm and I am packing up my room, for college. Yeah, I know you're probably wondering what college and why I am 20 and just now going to college? Well, let me explain. You see, last year after high school I decided to take a gap year and help out my mother because my father was very sick. He has yellow fever. That’s the reason he takes so many naps and why he is currently taking one right now. You see from what the doctor said he is super tired and will probably only be able to see the color yellow in his final days. But, for right now he is just plain annoying. He’s always complaining and napping, so anytime I want to stretch my vocal cords he starts blabbing about how what a racket I am making. It was getting to be too much last year for my mother to 48 | P a g e

handle so, like the good daughter I am, I held off my dreams to help him. But, now my mother says I might as well go, because he isn’t getting much better. Now I am off to Brown University.

I am not sure why they would name a school after such a dull color but, it’s the best school in the country for music, so I figured why not. You see, when I first was able to talk I told my parents I wanted to become a famous singer just like P!nk. P!nk is my all time favorite artist.

She has real guts and is so talented. I swear if I ever saw her in concert I would die. Like literally! So now I am off to college, to learn all there is to know about music and world of stardom.

“It took a while to convince my parents to let me go to such a strangely named school.

You see, from the day I was born they told me I had to only be friends with people of color, like actual colors. Like Aqua and Lilac and stuff like that. I was never able to hang out with people of boring color names. But, when I got into high school, I told myself I would no longer listen to what my parents had to say about the community of non-pigment colors. Non-pigments are the same thing as saying an outcast of society. No one of pigment was ever allowed to talk to a color of non-pigment because it was how they were raised. This made the non-pigment colors at our school become outcasts and they were often bullied by the other pigments. But, in my freshman year of high school I made friends with a non-pigment. Her name was Grey White and she was my best friend. She and I had the same interest of singing and becoming professionals.

We had our own styles of music, I was a pop artist and she was a blues singer, but that didn’t matter to us. We became fast friends, but there was one singular problem last year that we just couldn’t overcome with our friendship and that was: our parents.

Last year was senior prom and since no one had asked either one of us, we decided to go as each other's dates. We had a fantastic time together and it was probably the best day of my life. But then when I got home, my parents dragged me to the couch and told me that while on Facebook, they discovered pictures of me and Grey hanging out at prom. They wanted to know every little thing I had been keeping a secret and why in the world I was hanging out with a non-pigment. To say they were furious was probably an understatement. They cancelled our summer plans and made me take reform classes over my friendship with a non-pigment. It was the worst summer imaginable and when I finally got out of reform school, my dad had yellow fever and my best friend since freshman year had moved out of state with her parents.”

“Sia, are you ready to go, your flight is in an hour and you don’t want to be late!” My mom screamed from downstairs. I looked around my bedroom and sighed, I was going to miss this place. I grabbed the last box of stuff and my suitcase and took on 3 steps at a time as I went down the stairs. My mom, Burgundy was standing there with her arms crossed looking at me like I was about to turn into a Russian model. “Sia how many time have I told you not bounce down the stairs. You could hurt yourself or one of us.” She said running her hands 49 | P a g e

through her red hair. She grabbed her purse and told me to go and kiss my father goodbye.

Once I did that, I got into our orange Mazda and settled down and played one of my favorite songs on the radio. “So What” by P!nk.

Getting out of my taxi cab, I looked at my surroundings in amazement. Brown University was nowhere near as small as I first assumed it to be. I grabbed my baggage out of the trunk and waved to the nice driver as she pulled away from the curb. My trip to the university was not eventful at all besides the sorrow filled goodbye I received from my mother. Security was a pain as normal, and after waiting an extra 30 minutes because of the weather I got on the plane bursting with enthusiasm and joy. (Note the sarcasm). Once I was on the plane, I fell asleep within 20 minutes of taking off and only awoke after the captain announced we had arrived.

Climbing up the stairs to my new dorm brought back memories of my old high school.

Once I was outside my dorm room I knocked before entering. It was tiny and had only one window. The grey walls and the small bathroom made me suddenly miss my home back in Colortown. It was always bright and full of colors as many as you could imagine. But now sitting in this cupboard of a dorm room I felt all alone in the world. That was until my roommate, Lima Bean Green, showed up and then I didn’t feel anywhere near as lonely as I had minutes earlier.

We made fast friends and then headed out to get something to eat. We got back at 9pm and went to bed at like 1am which was in no way shape or form smart, because I had class the next day. Sure enough, I woke up 20 minutes late the next day.

I rushed putting on my clothes and to brush my hair into a semi-messy looking bun. I grabbed a protein shake from the fridge and flew down the stairs. Jogging to my first class, I drank my shake faster than actual lightning and ran into the auditorium. Sitting in the back, I whispered to the guy beside of me. “Excuse me, but could you tell me what page we are on?” I whispered taking out my textbook. He looked at me like I was crazy and went back to playing on his phone. I scoffed and poked him in the arm. I widened my eyes and looked down at my textbook and then back at him. He shrugged and went back his phone. I tried again “Excuse me, what page are we on?” He looked up at me and whispered back “Look, why are you even talking to me, are you blind?” He said harshly before continuing to text someone. I looked around at everyone. What did he mean when he asked if I was blind? Did I look blind? I stared down at my lap, and took in my outfit choice. Fuchsia leggings, fuchsia tank top, pink jacket.

‘Nope, I don’t look blind at least not to me.’ I thought to myself. I then looked at him and I mean really looked. Facial piercing, black skull T-shirt, black jeans, black hightops. ‘Oh no he thought I was one of those smug little witches who was going to bully him for being a non-pigment.’ I thought. I whispered back to him “I’m not blind and I really don’t care what color you are, just please tell me what page we are on.” I said in my sweetest voice possible. He looked shocked for the first few seconds before he whispered the page number to me. For the rest of class I 50 | P a g e

could feel his eyes on me the entire time. It was like he had never even gave people any credit for being non-judgemental. When class ended I headed to my next period where I found that the guy from last period was there. He looked up at me and took his leg off the seat beside him. I sat down and he initiated the conversation this time. “Umm, why do you not care what color I am?” He said curiously. I smiled and said “It’s because I chose to see things in another hue.”

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School Colors High school graduates are always quick to warn about how fast your senior year goes by. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” “Don’t let it get away from you,” “You’re gonna miss it all,” are common sentiments from kids with caps and gowns hanging in their closets, collecting dust. Us seniors all roll our eyes--yeah, we know, it goes by fast. Everything goes by fast. This isn’t news, but it definitely sneaks up on you.

Because suddenly it’s April of your senior year and all of your friends know where they’re going to college and the days go by a lot quicker than you ever expected.

There’s nothing quite like being a high school senior. This is the last time that all of the fanfare will be for us--college, while an exciting prospect, won’t be a cakewalk, and college graduation is just a pause of breath between higher education and real life. As a second semester senior, there’s so much to be excited about. We’ve been here for four years--we’re the veterans, the weathered travellers, the big kids.

With our senior breakfasts and college acceptances and lack of exams, we often take our status for granted. Admittedly, it’s hard to be excited about being a senior when you’re having a tough time figuring out where you want to be next year. Our collegiate alma mater inevitably will become part of our identities. We may not always be Falcons, but we’ll always be Tarheels or Mountaineers or Eagles. You want to go to a school that you can be proud of, a school with a reputation that you can get behind, and, yes, a school whose colors look good on you. We can’t necessarily choose your high school colors, but the hues of whatever college you attend will stain us for years to come.

It’s weird that I won’t be a Falcon next year. I wouldn’t say that I ever really identified with the green and maroon of Green Hope, but in June I’ll be trading those colors for the patriotic blue and red of my dream school in DC. I’ll leave, and maybe I won’t ever think about Green Hope again, but chances are, I will, and I’ll look back with a large amount of sentiment and appreciation. I didn’t peak in high school. Not even close. I joined a few clubs, raised my hand in class, and made some good friends. I did what I had to, and, yes, I had a good time. I can’t say that high school was a total blast but what I can say is that I’ll look back in a few years and think “you know, I actually didn’t suffer that much.”

There’s a girl whom I follow on social media who graduated from Cary High School last year and now attends New York University. You’d think that somebody who moved so far away from her hometown would be the kind of person who embraces the chaos of such a huge city, a girl who can easily adjust to such a different lifestyle. However, from what I gathered, she’s had a rough year, and her sentimental tweets about Cary and Bojangles lead me the believe that getting as far away as you feel like you have to from your hometown will always be difficult. Plenty of freshman have a hard time adjusting to life away from the familiar. A friend of mine at school in Brooklyn laments the cold weather and complains about how bad the barbeque is. But there are kids who are now hours away from home and seem to be doing absolutely fine. I’m guessing it just depends on the person. Personally, I know that I need to get out of this town, but part of me just really wants to stay.

In all honesty, the Falcon identity is not the first thing I’ll miss when I’m navigating the metro or studying in my dorm next year. I didn’t go to that many football games except to take photos for yearbook, and my involvement in school spirit didn’t extend much past that. But I’ll miss driving to school in the morning with my younger sister, blasting pop punk and complaining about the traffic. I’ll miss getting Chick-fil-A at lunch (even though I promised myself that I wouldn’t). I’ll miss the great teachers I had and the great books that we read. And I’ll miss everything else about my hometown. I’ll miss the sunsets I witnessed from the Chili’s To-Go counter when work was slow. I’ll think about the mall and the Haagen Daz stand and the serenity of Barnes and Noble. I’ll think about the days that school was just too much, and I went home early, feigning a headache. I’ll think about freshman year and the tragedy of finding out a close friend had been suffering from a mental illness to nobody else’s knowledge.

I’ll think about the Christmas parties, the graduation parties, the concerts, the books, the mix CDs, the school productions. I’ll think about the vacations, prom, the first dates, the projects. The laughter. The tears. And I’ll think about Green Hope, and everything that this school did for me. I owe a lot to Green 52 | P a g e

Hope. No matter what happens next year, no matter what I end up doing, I’m always going to be a Falcon.

At least just a little bit

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