Fragile Masculinity; The Blue Boy | Teen Ink

Fragile Masculinity; The Blue Boy

May 24, 2018
By AbleStoneArt BRONZE, Lake Geneva, Wisconsin
AbleStoneArt BRONZE, Lake Geneva, Wisconsin
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

Blue Boy’s wings give off a halo in the morning sun; those powerful, cobalt looking things. He stands, his feet in the beach’s freckles; and gazes across the sea of pinks. Curious, he dips in a doe-like toe, peering in, and for a brief moment a violet dye ripples before he flails about as if stricken. He holds his foot in hand, and glares at this pool of perplexing pink and purple. It doesn’t hurt, but this sea is so very warm: not something Blue Boy has been taught before.
Poor Blue Boy paces about, not entirely sure what he’s to do. He won’t be touching that ocean again though; for that can be assumed. In the distance upon this shore there is something stark and hard against the sand’s curved figure: a stick. The bottoms of his feet scraping eagerly against the sand, he grabs the brown branch and  comes crashing down. Back on sand, he holds the tree’s arm, swiping it in the air so effortlessly; he enjoys the sound of the fwips it makes greatly.
But Blue Boy becomes bored of this little diversion, and now the sun is at evening. Stabbing the stick into the curved beach’s body, he begins dragging it across her hips, purple lines following its wake, and a crude stick figure self portrait is made. In an instant, however, his newfound pass-time has been eaten up; the branch engulfed in sand and dragged under, into her belly. Perplexed face and lifted brow, Blue Boy thinks to himself, what a first day this has become.
The sun is setting. Laying in the sand on his side, wings arched inwards at his figure, and frigid hands under his head; Blue Boy is unsure of what’s next. There is to be no mixing with that pink, he’ll lose himself; and creating with lines is apparently unwelcome as well. Glancing at the sun, it winks back at him with a ray of blinding light. Burying his eyes in his arms he turns over, reflecting his previous position. He’s got to do something.
So he huffs to his feet, seemingly-strong wings stretching; feathers glistening against the sun’s last blinks. He turns, facing his dying sun as the moon begins to approach. He starts walking,  then sprinting, jumping, and gliding, until he reaches the air. He is flying! He shouts, and calls victoriously; finally happy.
But the sun has set, and now Blue Boy’s wings glisten with not the sun, but the moon’s overbearing stare. He thinks nothing at first, until a few feathers fall, and his muscles become as slow and tired as glue. His eyes grow wide as he watches helplessly while blue tones drip off him, showing stark white beneath: he is melting. And as he melts he is distraught with the realization that he is falling; slow at first, but there is no denying.
His strength has failed him; and as he drops towards the depths and becomes less blue and feathered every passing moment, he wonders what his existence was meant to be. Nothing he knew of himself had been true. His wings not truly strong, his skin not entirely blue. All he knew was the sun’s light, and yet there was the moon too. And there was warmth, and water, and  creation; but assumed they weren’t for him. Wasn’t that what the beach had been teaching him?
But just before he dropped--nearly a white skeleton, into the pink ocean’s heart--he wondered: what did it truly mean to be blue? Then the splash overcame him, her waves ate him, and he thought he had ceased to be: whether it blue, or anything.
Until he surged, so powerful and bold, feeling his wings glide him through the bubblegum pink sea. Breaching the surface, splashing lilac and lavender, he flung himself into the air; a boy of violet in the night sky: haloed by the moon. 
Tilting his head down, wings radiating confidence and power, he watches the ocean spreading into a purple dream. And when he looks around him, the stars seem to wink the same hue as the sea, and the beach’s freckles bleed into the sand, so much violet in this world of only one day.
Blue Boy’s cheeks flare into a grin, realizing that he has become part of this place, its purpose and puzzles.
He’s found his answer; because he now knows that in purple there’s a color that goes by the name ‘blue’.


The author's comments:

This piece is about gender roles and norms in our society; specifically, it hones in on subject matter or activities deemed 'unmasculine'. 


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