Friday, March 31, 2017

100 Word Stories!!

Okay, so I absolutely LOVED the idea of 100 word stories (thank you, Annie) so here they are! I asked my Facebook friends to post singular words they wanted me to write a 100 word story about. I tried to come up for something for each one, so here they are!

Being a horseman of the apocalypse is pretty boring. Considering apocalypses don’t happen every day, we get tons of downtime.
War, Death, and I, Pestilence, were just playing DOOM and smoking some grass.
“Yo, man,” War said, passing the blunt to Death, “I’ve got the munchies. What you got, Pestilence?”
“I dunno. Let’s go check.”
We walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. To our dismay, there was not a single morsel of food to be found.
“What the-” War began.
“Hey guys! What did I miss?” A familiar voice rang from behind us.
“Awe man, who invited Famine?”

“Today has been lovely, Derek. Thank you so much for spending time with me. I’ve really missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too, Mom. I always do.”
“You need to come visit me more often. I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“Sure, Mom. Oh, here.”
Derek hands his mother a box of shortbread; her favorite.
“Oh, how did you know I like these?”
“Just a guess.”
Derek smiles and gives his mother a kiss on the forehead.
“See you tomorrow, Mom”
As he leaves, his mother wheels herself to her pantry and places the cookies among many boxes just like it.

“Maybe we should open it.”
He eyed his lab assistant, considering the temptation. The cat had been in the box for two days. It was questionable whether it was alive or dead.
“Without knowing for sure, I’d think it’s safe to assume that it is simultaneously alive and dead.”
“That’s very alright, sir, but wouldn’t you like to find out for sure?”
Giving in, Dr.Schrodinger gave his assistant permission to open the lid.
“Sir, you might want to take a look at this.”
Inside the box was the cat, now dead. Next to her, however, lay a newborn kitten.

The dumpster behind China Lite on Gratiot Boulevard isn’t terrible. To be honest, it’s probably one of the better dumpsters in Marysville; everything thrown in here is practically edible. The place is always packed! And I’ve heard the owners are supposedly some of the nicest folks in town. It’s too bad, though, because the teriyaki must suck. It’s all I ever find back here. I don’t understand, though, because I think it tastes amazing! I come back every day, and there’s always a plate of it just laying there, steaming hot. Huh, looks like they even threw out a fork…

Mama always talks about how she “needs a new pair of shoes”. I think she’s asking in the wrong places, because she only ever asks the man behind the big green table who wears the dark sunglasses. I don’t think he sells shoes. Maybe sunglasses.
I bought Mama shoes today. I used the money she keeps in the jar with the word “jackpot” written on it. I don’t think she liked them.
Now somebody is knocking at our door. Mama is yelling and crying. She says it’s my fault.
She would have tried to buy sunglasses with that money anyway…

LEAH 12:35AM: Hi.
VIC 12:47AM: Hey.
LEAH 12:48AM: How does it feel being famous now :)
VIC 12:59AM: Pretty good lol. Been rly busy.
LEAH 1:02AM: Ur song came on the radio today.
VIC 1:10 AM: Yeah lol. And?
LEAH 1:11AM: I remember when u wrote it. It was my first time. It was great. U told me u loved me.
VIC 1:23 AM: Good times lol.
LEAH 1:25 AM: U don’t feel that way about me anymore, do u?
VIC 1:37 AM: Oh sweetheart. :/ That song was never about u.

Wednesday, March 29, 2017



What I'm Working On
I just finished up a ten-minute play that I ACTUALLY KIND OF LIKE?? That was a lot of fun, seeing as I haven't written anything in play format for a couple of years. My last play was VERY bad. I might share it on here one of these days if I manage to dig it up and retype it :)
I'm continuing to work on my Spectra installments, and they're going relatively well!
Poems here and there, but nothing crazy.

Word Count: 2513

How I Feel About The Process
It's slow-going, but I think I've been more productive these last couple weeks than I have in a long time. Viva la inspiration!

What I'm Reading Right Now
Tricks by Ellen Hopkins. What an honor to meet such a stunning lady and talented author. I'm loving it so far! I'll definitely be reading Crank and Impulse in the near future.

Chill Out
     -Arnold Schwarzenegger as Mr.Freeze

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

There is Something Wicked Above The Banisters

There is something wicked above the banisters
It speaks in tongues of a much higher caliber
Fine line between hysteria and contemplation
Oozes through the floorboards: temptation

You took your thumb and stuck it into my forehead
It left a mark similar to a giant's footprint in mud
And lately, he's been running across my mind
Something else he's been trying to find

He lost it sometime in the middle of September
And with all the footprints, it's hard to remember
But I'm pretty sure he left it at work
Underneath the secretary's skirt

There's something there in the attic, but I'm scared
What if I find it and I'm not prepared?
I wonder if I should look at all
All of this is so wrong.

No, that's just him pacing back and forth 
His steps are pounding on the attic floor
They beat like drums, hallucinogenic
My head is much too energetic

Something always seems up when you're looking from down
And the neighbors wonder why I'm never around
Because I've just been laying in bed
With thumbs pressed to my head

Soul Searching - A One Act Play

It's a bit rough, but here you go! My ten-minute play!

EZRA- Thirty-something businessman. Cynical. A bit awkward
GIRL- About nine years old. Sarcastic and dry. Smarter than she looks.
LEANNE- A woman of roughly thirty, GIRL's mother
GREGGORY- A man of roughly thirty, GIRL's father

Soul Searching
A One Act Play
By Sarah Gay

A graveyard at dusk. A few tombstones are spread among fallen leaves and fog. One tombstone, placed stage right, reads in large letters: “Emmeline Sensini”. It is worn with age and neglect, far overgrown. A second and third gravestone, stage left, read “Greggory Hollandsworth” and “Leanne Hollandsworth” respectively. These two headstones are better kept, though older.

A GIRL about the age of nine sits in between these two headstones, legs crossed and eyes closed. She wears a white sundress with her hair in braids down her back. She breathes deeply and is still. From stage right, EZRA, a young man in his thirties, enters carrying fresh flowers. He is a businessman and wears a smart blazer and khaki pants. Not noticing the girl, he kneels before the first tombstone, and begins speaking to the grave. GIRL listens from a distance, unmoving, though occasionally glancing in his direction.

EZRA: (obviously uncomfortable) Uh… Hey, Mom. It’s really been a while, huh? (A pause). I hope you’re doing okay… I mean, the whole being dead thing is kind of a bummer I guess. I mean, unless it’s not, of course. Maybe Heaven isn’t as boring as the Bible makes it out to be. Or maybe you’re in like… Nirvana or whatever. (Stammering) I guess what I’m trying to say is that I hope being dead isn’t… erm… Well I hope it’s all it’s cracked up to be. I-In the good way, of course!

(GIRL has to stifle a laugh. She gradually becomes more interested in Ezra’s futile attempt to make conversation with the tombstone)

EZRA: So um… I guess the reason I came here today was to talk to you about last night. I had a dream about you. (Nervous) Y-you were all choked up. I couldn’t hear what you were saying, but I really want to know, Mom. You were so… intense. I know what you had to tell me was important. I came here thinking… well, maybe you could, I dunno… show me a sign?

(GIRL, now very fascinated with Ezra’s ramblings, begins to creep behind tombstones in order to better hear him. EZRA continues to be ignorant of her presence)

EZRA: That’s how it works, right? I ask for a sign and you like… ruffle some leaves or- or you know, knock once for yes, twice for no? (A pause) That’s how it works right? (Defeated) What the hell am I even doing here? This is ridiculous.

GIRL: (Popping up from behind Emmeline’s tombstone) Hey! I can bring her back to talk to you, y’know? I’ve been practicing!

EZRA: (Startled) What the fu-! Oh, you scared the hell out of me.

GIRL: (Ignoring him) I’m serious! I can help you! I’ve really been practicing

EZRA: Where are your parents? You’re not here by yourself, are you?

GIRL: (Gesturing stage left) Over there!

EZRA: (Looking for them) I don’t see anybody. Are you lost?

GIRL: Well of course you can’t see them. They’re not awake right now! But I can wake them up if you’d like. You can meet them! They’re really nice.

EZRA: Why would they be sleeping in a graveyard? Doesn’t that seem a bit… I dunno… morbid?

GIRL: (Obviously exhausted) Well they live here, so I don’t see why they wouldn’t sleep here.

EZRA: So, you live here? Do you live in the mortuary?

GIRL: (Disgusted) That dingy old place? God, no! You're a bit slow on the uptake, if you know what I mean.

EZRA: (Incredulously) Slow?

GIRL: So you don’t know what I mean.

EZRA: Oh, please. I know what you mean but - whatever. I don’t see your parents. I’m going to call the police so they can come and take you back home, okay?

GIRL: You really are slow. They’re right over there. (She points indiscriminately to stage left once more) See? They’re sleeping.

EZRA: (Finally catching on) Oh, sweetie. (He kneels) Honey, they’re not sleeping. I don’t know how much whoever has been looking after you has told you, but judging by the looks of it, not much. (A pause) I really hate to tell you this, but your parents have passed away. It’s kind of like sleeping but less… alive. I don’t want you to be upset, but they’re not going to be coming back. You should really get home to your family. Would you like me to take you?

GIRL: (rolling her eyes) I know how to get back home. I come to visit them every weekend. And don’t worry, they’re really strict about me getting back home before dark.

EZRA: You mean your caretaker is strict?

GIRL: (Exasperated) Oh my gooooood, no! My. Parents. I don’t see how this is so hard to understand, and frankly, mister, I’m losing daylight. So you can either go back to struggling to make conversation with an inanimate tombstone for the next twenty minutes, or you can recruit my help.

EZRA: Your help?

GIRL: Yes! I can help you talk to your mom. That’s what you wanted, right? To talk?

EZRA: Well, yeah, but that’s not possible.

GIRL: Of course it is, silly! I do it all the time. (Grabbing his hand) Come here.

(GIRL sits on the ground in front of the stone, and pulls down Ezra next to her)

GIRL: The problem with what you were doing before was actually quite simple and it happens all the time to newbies, so I wouldn’t feel too stupid. Rookie mistake. Really, as a whole, talking to the dead is a process. You can’t just walk up to your mom like (imitating Ezra) “Hey-o, Madre! Hope being dead doesn’t suck! Now talk to me!” No, no, no! It’s like… super off-putting to start out a conversation that way. Like, could you imagine being asleep for (she glances at the tombstone, observing the date of death) nine years and then being woke up with someone shoving flowers up your nose and screaming in your ear? (She observes EZRA, who just shrugs) Well, you wouldn’t really feel like talking, would you? What you’ve gotta do instead is talk to yourself. Figure out what it is that you want to get out of disturbing such a (mocking a spooky voice) peaceful slumber.

EZRA: Well, I want to know what she was trying to tell me in my dream last night. I thought that was kind of obvious…

GIRL: Well, okay, that’s a start. A bad, doofus-y start, but a start nevertheless.

EZRA: Hey, well I’m trying here, okay? Not everybody is a creepy little girl in a graveyard who goes all “Sixth Sense” every weekend and claims to talk to her dead parents.

GIRL: No, but not everybody is a cynical, hardened asshole who won’t even give spirituality and enlightenment a chance. And don’t talk shit about Sixth Sense! (A pause) It’s not like she can read your mind, dude. She’s not God. You’ve gotta talk to her.

EZRA: (Surprised by the girl’s vulgarity) Okay, damn. I’m listening.

GIRL: Why do you think her message is important?

EZRA: What?

GIRL: Why do you think she was trying to talk to you? Do you think there might be something going on right now that you know she would have helped you with when she was alive? Something that has stuck with you for a while? That tends to be the case with dreams like that. People tend to find answers in places and people they associate with their problem. It’s got something to do with psychological conditioning or something.

EZRA: Well… (hesitant) I’m finalizing my divorce tomorrow.

GIRL: Awesome!

EZRA: (Offended) Excuse me?

GIRL: Whoa. Okay, I get how that could have sounded insensitive, but I honestly couldn’t care less about your failing love life. It’s just a much better start to this whole thing.

EZRA: I see.

GIRL: So…?

EZRA: So…?

GIRL: Keep going!

EZRA: I don’t know if I want to- erm… you wouldn’t understand.

GIRL: Good thing you’re not talking to me, then.

EZRA: (Giving her a look) Okay. Well then… I’ve been feeling really shitty about the whole thing lately. I don’t know what happened. My marriage just fell apart right under my nose and I didn’t even notice it until she threw the papers on my desk and put the pen in my hand. I wanted to have kids. I wanted to travel the world with her. I wanted to grow old, die, and be buried next to her. I don’t know what I did to make her hate me. I feel so hopeless - useless, really. I don’t know how to fix this… but now it’s too late. I was hoping my mom- (stammering) you… could give me some advice about how to move on. You went through the same thing with dad… and you turned out alright, from what I remember. I was just hoping you could shed some light for me… what my next step should be.

GIRL: Wow. Heavy.

EZRA: (Glaring) I know. (Under his breath) Thought I wasn’t talking to you...

GIRL: (Ignoring him) Well this is good. You’ve come clean with yourself. That’s the first step. She knows what’s wrong now, and you’ve opened up the gateway to communication. This is very good. The next thing I want you to do is close your eyes and listen.

EZRA: ...For what, exactly?

GIRL: Anything.

EZRA: (Sarcastic) Specific.

GIRL: I’m serious. Don’t be such a wad. Just… (she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath) listen. You’ll understand when you hear it.

(EZRA mimics the girl, but awkwardly places his fingers on his knees in a meditative position. He peeks at the girl through his lashes. GIRL, opening her eyes to check his progress, discovers his ridiculous position and scoffs)

GIRL: You look like Bruce Lee trying to catch a fly between two chopsticks… with another chopstick up your butt. Why are you being so uptight about this?

EZRA: I just don’t see how this is going to help. (A beat) And you know who Bruce Lee is?

GIRL: Doesn’t everyone? Anyway, you really need to relax and enjoy the moment, okay? It’s really not that hard. Who would want to talk to someone who looks like they’re going to make a break for the little boys room at any second during the conversation? You look like you had one too many bean burritos at lunch today. Just… chill.

EZRA: (Angering) I don’t want to “chill”! I want answers!

GIRL: I’m trying to give them to you the best I can! I’ve been practicing! I can help!

EZRA: (Standing up) The only help you’re giving is to my dry cleaner, having me sit in all this dirt! I don’t need this!

GIRL: Of course you do! This is why you came here today, right?

EZRA: I came here to put an end to my nagging mind, okay? I didn’t come here to sit around in a filthy graveyard and get shat on by a creepy nine year old who sees dead people! (Turning to leave) I’m going.

GIRL: (Yelling) Have you ever stopped to think this is why she’s leaving?

EZRA: (Pausing) What?

GIRL: How could any woman respect someone who won’t even take the proper time to talk to her? To listen? How could she confide in someone who only answers to reason, not faith? Maybe she needs someone to believe in her when all signs point to failure. You don’t have any idea what love is if this is any representation of how you treat her. (Standing) When was the last time you asked her about her day? Yesterday? A week ago? Last month? When did you last thank her for making you breakfast, or for cleaning your hair out of the sink? Have you looked her in the eyes, swept her up in your arms, and told her how much she means to you? Because it’s kind of hard to know those kinds of things without being told so.

EZRA: I - well…

GIRL: And don’t tell me you’ve tried everything. I know what your soul looks like, Ezra, and I see it’s lacking. You tell me how you’ve tried to find the answer, and yet I see you here today, throwing your answer away because you don’t want your pants to get dirty. Well, get this, bub - love isn’t in a bottle of Tide stain-removing detergent, okay? Maybe you need to stop and listen just a bit more. Maybe you need to learn to open up to let love in. (Disenchanted) Your soul is so empty, Ezra.

EZRA: (Angry, then cooling) Wow. You really think that? (A beat) Maybe you’re right. I - (To himself) I still have time... (suddenly frantic) I’ve got to go. Thank you, erm-

GIRL: Emma.

EZRA: Right. Thank  you, Emma. I’m sorry. I’ve got to-

GIRL: It’s okay, it’s getting dark anyway. I’ve got to get home soon or my parents will flip.

EZRA: Right. (Turning back to the girl) How did you know my name, by the way?

GIRL: Oh, it’s on your nametag.

EZRA: (Looking down at his blazer) Oh, right. Well, thank you again! Get home safe!

GIRL: You too!

(EZRA EXITS. GIRL watches him leave. She turns to the gravestone, brushing the letters with her fingers. She picks up the bouquet of flowers Ezra has left behind and smells them. She smiles. Two figures, one male, one female, dressed in white ENTER stage right, holding hands)

LEANNE: Do you think he’s going to be okay, Emmeline?

GIRL: I think so. He has enough left in him. I don’t think he’s too late. (A beat) I worry about him.

GREGGORY: Well, you’re doing a mighty fine job of keeping him on track, baby girl.

(GIRL walks to them, they embrace)

GIRL: Do you think he’ll come to visit now? I miss him. It’s been almost nine years since we talked.

LEANNE: I hope so, sweetie.

GIRL: Mama, do you think - one day - I’ll be able to tell him the truth?

LEANNE: I’m sure, some day… but I think he still has a little ways to go. Keep trying, baby girl. Everything will turn out okay. I don’t think you have to worry about him too much any more.

GIRL: (Crying) I just love him so much. I want to tell him everything.

GREGGORY: Do you remember the first time you came to visit us? In this very same cemetery? We did the same thing. You know he has to come to his realizations on his own, otherwise his lessons will never be learned. (He kisses her forehead) You’re doing well.

GIRL: Okay, Papa. Maybe you’re right. It’s just so hard sometimes, seeing him like that. He’s my boy, y’know? (She smiles, and looks up at the sky) Let’s go home. It’s almost dark.



Friday, March 24, 2017

Spectra - Installment 3

A Side Note to You, the Reader
Now, I feel like I have some explaining to do. I often get a bit ahead of myself, as I tend to forget you have no prior knowledge of this world. I’m going to debrief you on the short history of my kind. Chromats, or scientifically, Audiochromatatophes, were a subclass of humans that -due to strange genetic mutations- were able to process light frequencies as sound waves. Whether this characteristic was physical or merely psychological, it is still unknown, though we do know it affected roughly 4% of the population at it’s peak.
An extraordinarily recessive gene, Photoauditory Perception Syndrome, or PPS, was first documented in 2019. In controlled studies, volunteers were given pieces of mutli-colored cardstock, and were asked to describe each color in one to two words. Those in possession of the PPS gene often described blues and violets to be “obnoxious” and “piercing” in contrast to those who did not carry the gene, who more often than not found blues to be “calming” and “dreamy”. The PPS positive test subjects admitted to only “hearing” such sounds when the card was in their sight; if the card was flipped, the noise stopped. This is a result of the high frequencies of light emitted by the violet end of the visible spectrum being perceived by the brain as a high-pitched sound. When the stimulus was eradicated, e.i., when the card was flipped, subjects could no longer see its color, and therefore did not perceive it auditorially either. Scientists originally believed this transmission of energy was due to highly receptive ocular cones, but later ruled that out during a relatively fruitless dissection of a cadaver's eye. Complicated, I know, but if it makes you feel any better, scientists never quite figured it out either.
Scientists studied PPS in massive government-funded projects for upwards of thirty years in the hopes of creating some sort of Darwinian monstrosity. Their plan - after successfully decoding the mutant alleles - was to insert the affected host’s DNA into plasmid vectors; an older method of cloning used in the early 2000’s. By manipulating this gene to their liking, the ultimate goal was to form a new branch of military special-ops, called “Spectators”. These finely tuned super-soldiers would be able to detect an enemy’s position by sensing any miniscule inconsistency in visual stimuli by comparing the foreign light-to-sound frequencies with their surroundings. This would require acute precision on the scientist’s part, however, as the allele in it’s natural state was not nearly that refined. Unfortunately, funding was cut for the project in the year 2043 for unknown reasons, though most believed it was because no further progress had been made.
The money was no sooner cut from research than it was diverted into special schooling for these individuals. Under the eye of equal and civil-rights activist, President William D. Nye (2042-2050), dimly lit classrooms were implemented in public schools across the fifty states, along with the invention of Chroma-Protective Eyewear. From then on, Audiochromatatophes were perceived less as science experiments (or as my personal favorite group of religious extremists referred to us as, “The Eyes of Baphomet”), and were accepted into a relatively normal way of life. Movements were set in place throughout the 40’s, advocating for “hearing-friendly workplaces” and the discontinuation of neon signs. With just a little nudging, the non-colorhearing world made room for us, and we settled in comfortably.
That is, until they came and took it all away.
-L.J.W, August 25th, 2095

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

I Haven't A Clue

... But I do know it's Wednesday!

What I've Been Working On
 I've been keeping up with writing my new narrative. I'm about three chapters in, and still keeping a timely schedule. That, of course, is subject to change as life... y'know... happens. But I'm doing my best.
Just found out that two of my poems are going to be published in the Moorpark Review, so I'm quite excited about that as well!

Word Count: 875

How I Feel About The Process
It's been a little slow-going the past week, but that's mostly due to me being a busy little bumble bee. It's okay, though. I haven't lost my will to write... yet!

What I'm Reading Now
Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things by Martina McAtee. It's literally 500 pages long and I'm roughly 300 in. It should only take me about until the end of the month to finish with my given schedule. I'm very excited to see how it ends. I went to my local bookstore and the lovely lady there said she's actually in the process of writing a sequel!!! I told her I'll be at her shop come the release date with my money in hand! :)

Colonel Mustard in the Library with the Wrench!
      -Mrs. White Girl

Friday, March 17, 2017

Spectra - Installment 2

Chapter 1
I read peacefully to the sound of gray. It was overcast, and the sun hid behind plump cumuli. Everything was muted, as if the world was being asphyxiated under a pillow of cloud cover. Muffled buzzing penetrated the glass window as I observed the outside from my favorite perch in the house. It was on the first landing of the L-bent stairs, facing the east. I read there every morning after sleepily pouring myself a cup of Folgers. Usually I would try to get a majority of my reading done while the sunlight was only a faint suggestion on the horizon, as this was the most opportune time of day for a Chromat; nothing was bright enough to be loud, nor was it dark enough to warrant that signature eerie silence. Five A.M. was the sweet spot.
After twenty minutes or so of reading, my mother, furled under four hours of sleep, padded down the staircase in her dressing gown and curlers.
“Good morning, Luca,” she yawned.
“Morning, Ma,” I replied.
“Did you eat yet?” she asked, rounding the corner to the kitchen.
“No, but I will soon, I promise.”
“Please, I don’t want you going hungry at school again,” she called over the sound of clattering coffee mugs. “I’d really rather not have to drop my lunch hour just to run to Cino’s to grab you a hoagie again.”
“I will mom. Once I’m done with this chapter, okay?” I retorted. “And those hoagies are damn good and you know it!”
Mom peeked her head around the corner and studied me for a minute, eyebrows bunched together. She sighed, shook her head, then smiled. “I’ll just make you some eggs.”
I thanked her with a slight tip of my head, and resumed my reading. That morning, I found myself curled up in my nook for much longer than usual. Overcast was a Chromat’s best friend; clouds were the ultimate soundproofing. Being a Chromat in Seattle had it’s perks, so it’s really not surprising that it had the nation’s largest Chromat population. It was estimated to be home to more than 100,000 Chromats in the year 2062, and it probably increased by the thousands in the three years following. Or, at least, that’s what I estimated. I had a penchant for knowledge. Anything I could get my hands on, I tried to decode, decipher, or debunk. My intelligence was probably the reason my mom moved us out to Seattle in the first place.
I was born in Petosky, Michigan, November 13th, 2048. Petosky wasn’t really a “hearing-friendly” community, if you know what I mean, so we decided to move to the Chromat capital of the USA. After my dad died, shortly after my 13th birthday, it wasn’t that hard to pick up and leave. Everything about that place was a constant reminder of what happened. It was nice to start over.
I loved it there, to be completely honest. I went to William Drake High on the eastside of Seattle. I made friends, passed all my classes, and even had a girlfriend of three years. A girlfriend, mind you, that was also a Chromat! Believe me, if you would have told me when I was a boy that I’d meet a girl -a Chromat girl- that loved me as much as I loved her… I probably laugh at you. Like I said, Petosky wasn’t very hip on us colorhearers.
Alice was the single best thing that ever happened to me. I couldn’t tell you how many journals I wasted just doodling her eyes, or writing sappy love poems. I absolutely couldn’t get over her. She was everything I had ever dreamed of and more; romantic, nerdy, sarcastic, and even a little aggressive at times. She did this thing… whenever I’d “forget” my chemistry homework at home, she’d lean over in her desk behind me and whisper in my ear, “I’m going to take you right down into the football stadium, mister, and punt your scrawny ass from the fifty yard line if you don’t turn in your homework tomorrow.” She’d give my lobe a little tug with her teeth, then resume copying the notes from the board. Like, c’mon, how much more perfect can a single person get? Intimidation and sex appeal!
I let my mind wander to her petal pink curls as my eyes uselessly skimmed the over same sentence. It was just getting a bit steamy inside my skull when Mom suddenly appeared at my side, tapping me on the shoulder.
“Hey-yo, space cadet! Your eggs are waiting for you in Nebula Seven.”
“Jesus Christ, Mom. You scared the shit out of me,” I breathed, trying to drain the blood from my cheeks.
“Yeah, I know, and I had fun doing it too. Come eat your eggs, astrodork.”
I quickly finished the remaining sentences of the chapter and dog-eared my page. I paused for a moment, then placed my bookmark in the spine instead, flattening the corner back into place. I had to have more respect for my books than that if I ever wanted to be an author.
At the table, Mom laid out a plate of yellow eggs with green onions in them. Black pepper dotted the top. It looked, smelled, and sounded amazing. The yellow hummed a low, melodic tone, while the little green bits beat out a solid rhythm. The tiny black flakes of pepper provided the perfect measure. I loved my mother’s eggs. I pulled up a chair, gulped down some orange juice, and brandished my fork.
“Are you going out with Alice this weekend?” Mom asked, eyeing me over her own book.
“Yuh,” I blubbered with a mouth full of egg, “probubly tuh thuh cabun.”
“Okay,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee, “Just make sure you say hi to Uncle Garrison for me, okay?”
“Of course,” I said, swallowing, “As always.”
She smiled a crooked smile and returned to her book.
I walked to school that morning. The Seattle weather was perfect, and every color sounded pure. Winter was on the way, and I could smell it in the air.  I walked the pavement. Walls of green sound enveloped me like a parting sea as the grasses created harmonies with one another. I closed my eyes and listened, picking out each blade of grass in the verdant chorus.
Green was my favorite sound - it was neither high, nor low. Green -in it’s purest form- was what put me to sleep every night. My room was painted #99ff99 in css terms: a tint of the most perfect green observable to the human eye -and, to people like me- heard by the human ear. Most Chromats erred on the side of pink or maroon, as tints and shades of red emit the lowest frequencies and are almost indetectable. Black was also common among our kind, as it is, of course, the absence of all color. White, however, we didn’t take kindly too.
But that day… that day the grass was an “onions in Mom’s eggs” green, and I had a feeling it was

going to be absolutely beautiful.