Yellow

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On a bland street in a not so quiet suburb, a house sat neatly behind its well-trimmed lawn

and light brick wall. It was the nicest house on the street by quite a bit. Constant remodeling by

the lady of the house made it stand out from the rest of the worn out, decaying old structures that

lined the rest of the way.


The inside was pure white, neat, and unremarkable with brown furniture and a rather

sedated floral patten on the curtains. Doilies had been placed neatly over the arms of the sofa and

the table lamps were all the same shade of off-white. It was all very clean, almost sterile looking

from all the white on the walls and had an old fashioned feel to it.


Nothing but white could be seen from a first turn about the house, however, if one were

to open the first door on the left side of the hallway, a surprise awaited them. Bright as day and in

complete disarray, the room could not have been more different from the rest of the house. A

scorching yellow covered its walls, filling it with a feeling of such vitality, and spirit, one

couldn’t help but smile as they walked in. It was as though the room were in rebellion, its

brightness a severe contrast of the painfully neutral hall outside. This small yellow box in a sea of

dull brown seemed a refuge for the spirit, a place of energy, life, joy, and the bright light of a

unique soul bound to a world of normality, from with it stood out with no hope, or wish, of

concealment.





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