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The Colors of Love MAG
Red is the color I turned when Mark Adams first kissed me on the cheek. I said I most certainly did not like him, and he said he could prove I was lying. He knew a special test. By changing colors I failed the test, and he couldn’t stop laughing.
Orange was the color of our fingertips when we finished a family-sized bag of Cheetos. We stayed up all night watching “Star Wars” movies. Mark couldn’t believe I’d never seen a George Lucas film. We didn’t eat popcorn because he had lost his popcorn-popping privileges. He didn’t tell me why; he just said it was a dark day in the Adams household.
Yellow daffodils were pushing up from the ground when he took me to the park, saying we must “celebrate spring.” He brought an enormous red kite, the kind that has a tail with ribbons. As we sat in the grass, he undid the sun-colored ribbon in my brown hair, adding it to the tail of the kite. We ran all around the park to keep our kite flying, the ribbons waving.
Green was the color of Mark’s face after we rode the biggest roller coaster in the amusement park. He’s afraid of them, but he rode it anyway to prove that he was “man enough,” I guess. When the ride was over, he dashed to the nearest trash can, emptying his stomach. So much for manhood. I couldn’t stop laughing. That is, until he said if I didn’t stop, he’d kiss me on the mouth. Barf kiss: gross!
Blue envelopes are tied up with string in a shoebox under my bed. Love letters Mark left in my locker, signed, “Your secret admirer, Mark.” I told him signing his name defeated the purpose of a secret admirer, but he said he didn’t care.
Indigo ink on the palm of his hand where he wrote “I love you.” I kissed his palm, and all of his fingers, before settling on his mouth.
Violet roses I received a week before our anniversary. We never exchanged gifts on that day. He said red ones were overdone. “Besides,” he added, “violet is the color of passion.” He waggled his eyebrows, and I laughed, hitting him lightly on the arm.
The colors of the rainbow are the ties that bring Mark and me together. Growing ever stronger, they portray our love.
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This article has 359 comments.
Some things ("Barf Kisses: YUCK!") are unnecessary and degrade the impression of the piece.
It isn't so much a story as it is a snippet. A micro-fiction to brighten your day. Well done, well done.
I am so intrigued by you, which is probably what you want to hear and
I understand it.
But honestly, here is a simile for you,
Your writing is like a rhythmic song lingering around me, it is wonderful.
So thank you very much for putting these words together and making my day brighter. Thank you for letting me know that someone can write as phenomenally as you can.
"Runaway" An excerpt...
Darkness descended until the neon lights reflected elusive colors into the slick shadows of the wet street. Rain slid down my guant features, and I grinned wryly as I played with the strings of my acoustic guitar rhythmically. I tilted my face towards the polluted skies, and leaned the contours of my thin body against the brick wall. The city, empty and barren, shunned my existence.
People, clad in coats meant for the brittle cold, skirted past my hollow guitar case without a sympathetic glance. Figures beneath umbrellas hastened past without revealing their faces. I closed my eyes and wondered vaguely if people without hearts lacked faces.
"I need change," I whispered brokenly. The kind of change that would unmask the facade that people portrayed. The kind of change that would uncover the delusions people harbored. The kind of change that would grant actual change for food, shelter, warmth - without contempt.
My senses had become peculiarly aware since my wandering. I heard the resounding arrival of an enemy common to the nomad. I sighed, and fought the demonic urge to carve a wicked, ironic grin across my face.
My dark indigo irises mirrored sorrow to please the outraged police officer.
"Punk, get the hell off my streets!" He shouted, a pitiful vision of what is known as authority.
He snatched the traditional cardboard sign of the vagrant from the sidewalk, and ripped it until it represented nothing. Scrawled in unattractive black, my words had been, "Just because you look away doesn't mean I'm not here."
"Don't you come back, boy."
"Yes, sir." I snapped a salute, and knit my eyebrows sternly.
He reached for his gun, I suppose, to frighten me.
"I better not see you around here anymore. You got that, you dirty bum?"
"Of course, sir."
My rebellious nature flickered dangerously, and the sense of anarchy burned into my veins greedily. I turned away from the fuming man, and gathered all I had in the world: a ruined guitar case, a guitar, and three dollars.
"Hey!" He yelled as I was sauntering away,"Hey, scum. How the hell old are you?"
I straightened, and lifted my chin. I suppose that my ragged clothes, the dark circles beneath my eyes, the alabaster skin ravaged by the elements, the black hair plastered to my skull by the rain, and the lean state of my body implied that I could not possibly be human.
I growled, and he stumbled back as I hissed defiantly, "I'm seventeen."
He smiled, and leaned back like I had given him a reason to breathe. In a voice like the sewer dripping, he lolled, "That makes you a runaway, boy."
I smiled, my lips curling in a devious way.
"Yes, I suppose it does."
And I ran.
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