The Colors Of Music by Julia
The Rot by Aila
The Garden Of Generations by Zainab
Untitled by Peter
The Colors Of Music
By Julia
Tick, tick, tick.
I looked up.
Tick, tick, tick.
The ceiling was white. It almost felt as if the fluorescent lights and white paint were banding together to cast daggers into my eyes. Not that I minded, anyway. I just wanted to feel something. That was something. Something was more than I felt I could ask for. It’s more than I’ve had in a long time.
I lowered my gaze.
I stared at the screen in front of me instead.
Spreadsheets, emails, meetings.
Documents, slideshows, reports.
Calendars, checklists, reminders.
I know why I do this, so there’s no point in asking. To make money. We all need money. Things could be worse. I could be working in customer service. The thought of working in customer service elicited a shiver from me. But this wasn’t customer service. It was a stable job. Albeit boring, sure, but easy. Simple. It was a job that paid well, didn’t stress me out, and I was good at. That was what was most important.
Tick.
Five o’clock. Finally, I could go home. After having packed my bag and given the customary goodbye to my coworkers, I left the office. While driving home, there was, as there tends to be, heavy traffic. It was not unusual, nor were the incessantly honking cars, but I noticed something different today. Next to the road, there was a group of children playing outside. I never paid attention to them (even if I wanted to, I couldn’t over the rumble of cars and honking), but I decided to today. One of the children was excitedly showing the others a drawing they made of what looked like a bear. Or maybe a dog? It was hard to tell.
I felt, nearly immediately, a profound wave of disgust wash over me. So much so that I imagined bashing their puny heads in. Art? Are they stupid? Art is a waste of time. If you can’t realistically make money from it, what’s the point? If only I had started preparing for the world of accounting instead of practici-
No.
The blaring of the cars only felt more apparent. In this city, nature was sparse, but the few trees that were allowed to grow were caged by the concrete surrounding them. A square-shaped prison. The concrete was the same color as my office. Gray. It was vaguely reminiscent of the cubicle I work in every day. Gray, square-shaped, but a prison? Well, no. Not a prison. Because I chose to work there. It was my decision. So it couldn’t be a prison.
Upon returning home, I sat down on my gray couch and used my gray remote to turn on my gray television. I felt my body relax as I became entranced with what I was watching. I couldn’t really tell what I was watching, to be perfectly honest. To be even more honest, that didn’t even matter. The flashing lights were bright. Colorful. Neon lights,collisions of screaming hues, a kaleidoscope of living, breathing colors. Tonight would be a good night.
I wanted to forget about those ignorant children, so I cracked open a beer. Around 30 minutes after drinking it, I noticed the colors of the television improving in saturation. They seemed so beautiful, so alive. They nearly seemed to take form and embrace me, pulling me into their arms. These arms were bright reds, blues, greens, and every other color you could imagine, flowing in and out like the ebb and flow of waves. They would dress me in beautiful gowns of color, in expensive jewelry, and in their arms they would adore me, worship me, need me.
And then I would wake up.
My head hurts.
The wall was gray again.
I got up and went through the day as I always do, only with a slightly more pronounced headache this time. Traffic today was as horrible as it was yesterday. The gray, white, and black cars all seemed to be louder than last time. The air felt thicker, my body felt heavier, and I was generally more uncomfortable than last time. And then I saw them again. Those children. I studied them more closely this time. There were three of them, two wearing dull red shirts, and the other wearing a washed-out yellow dress. Those barely visible colors? They’ll be gray soon enough, I thought. My fingers tightened on the steering wheel, the already-existing headache giving way to more significant irritation.
“Look! Look!” One exclaimed, shoving a new piece of “art” in another kid’s face. “I spent all night making this. My mom hid the pencils one night… but I was awake! I watched her hide them, and I was so quiet, she didn’t notice a thing. And after she left? Boom! I stole them!”
I felt angry. I couldn’t help but feel angry. Not only did the kid make art, but they stole, too. But the kid… wasn’t gray. What if I… Maybe? Maybe I could. I felt the anger slowly seep away, replaced by a sort of fascination and… hope.
Upon returning home, I ventured into the attic for the first time in what felt like forever. Climbing around the crates and boxes, my eyes settled on my old electric guitar. It was a dull blue, but still blue. I felt my heart rate increase. This felt illegal, almost criminal. But the color made me so happy. I plugged the amp into an old socket, praying it worked. I then plugged the amp into the guitar and turned it on. Taking in a deep breath, I played a familiar sequence of chords. It was quiet, clunky, and far from perfect, but it was… familiar. Real.
I studied the bashed corner of the guitar. My friend gave me the guitar years ago, and I accidentally hit the bottom of the body on the wall when running to my room to hide it from my dad. I closed my eyes and surrendered myself to the music. I played my part of a song my friend and I created together. It wasn’t the same without him on the drums… but it was still part of me. I opened my eyes, and looking down at the guitar, I froze. It was a bright cobalt blue, brighter than I thought colors could be. Even brighter than on the television. I noticed a drop of water on the guitar. It was probably a tear, but I couldn’t tell. I didn’t care right now. All I wanted was to play.
To feel.
To love.
To create.
And even though he’s not here anymore to play the drums, to share.
The Rot
By Aila
onyx and indigo rot run through their veins
crawling from their insides and spilling out of their lips
burning eyes and ripping flesh from bones
navy, sapphire, cobalt replace blood
oozing out from their body and mind
painting them in shades of ocean
they cry ink tears that stain their skin
ebony snakes crawl up their throat
obsidian stones block nerves and make them numb
the rot cocoons them in a suffocating embrace
a painful hug
a bruising grip
a comforting hold
crushing their wings beneath the blue-black tendrils
The Garden Of Generations
By Zainab
FADE IN: DIM LIGHTS ON
EXT. THE GARDEN — SUNSET
A woman with long brown hair, green eyes, and olive skin, wearing a light pink silk gown, enters the garden. She stands in the middle of the field, surrounded by multicolored flowers. In the background is a large tree.
WOMAN
The garden remains as beautiful as
I can remember. The flowers still
bloom to their peak.
The woman kneels, plucking a daisy. She stares at the setting sun.
WOMAN
Oh, garden of plenty, you always hear
My thoughts, and you never judge me.
Your roots connect to the soles of my
feet. You bring me life. Oh sweet
garden, I thank you for inviting me
once more to your paradise.
She stands up and moves towards the giant weeping willow. She sits underneath it, laying her legs flat.
WOMAN
So I ask that you embrace me again, and hear me…
(hesitant)
Last time I came here, I was forced
to leave you. And I didn’t know if I
would return. Now I come back a
changed Woman.
She smiles.
WOMAN
(happy)
I’m married now. Happily, I’ve got
a little girl of my own. She has silky,
golden hair, which she got from my
Beloved and with the same green eyes as me.
The woman twirls the daisy around her fingers.
WOMAN
I’m going to bring her here. She
loves planting seeds in our small
garden here. When she comes back
from school, she brings me a small
flower, and I’ve been arranging it into a small
crown.
Oh, garden of plenty..
(sad)
I was devastated to have left you,
but now.. I’m back with the people
I love, and I’m not going anywhere
A faint roar of an engine is heard from afar, and giggles of a small child. The woman’s child enters the garden, running and hugging her mother
CHILD
(happy)
Mama mama! This place is soooo pretty!
The woman smiles, standing while holding her child close to her.
WOMAN
(softly)
Of course, baby girl. This is the
Magical garden that mama told you about.
Come, I think I saw some horses over
there. I’m sure Papa brought some of
those sweet apples we bought yesterday,
Hmm?
The woman gently nuzzles her nose against the little child. The child giggles.
CHILD
Mhm! Papa came prepared. I can’t wait
to give them to the pretty horses.
WOMAN
(smiling)
Me too, baby. Let’s go.
EXIT WOMAN AND CHILD
Untitled
By Peter
Is there any triumph greater than life?
To walk forth unto hardship, glory, embraces and to see past the veil of despair,
Almost as if to become the person above what stands beneath?
Ubermensch? In a sense, or at a distance it appears so very far away.
For who, rather than making peace with their desire, makes sonnets of adoration
And stillyet holds love, contentment, and all the joys of creation closer than arms reach?
They will perch upon your heart, dance, trip on your sinews, cords to let the eyes fall limp
And tears to meander from the living saloon doors. Tugging down on the valves of the mouth;
Declarations of the tender heart and spirit proclaiming themselves to be known to the world.
And still yet to holdfast, not to falter in the face of transtemporal guests, climbing hopefully,
Untouching of the pottery on its muscle bound sill, and yet only gentle as so if the heart is honest.
Strong as the grip to the hull of a ship in the roaring storms of passing time.
And yet if you turn away, turn around in convulsions of despair, the suspended
Ground will fall from beneath your feet, to the geometric sea;
Awaiting to make every moment distinctly unchanging.
Yet I have faith, some may call misguided, I will hold my head beyond the veil. My Intermundane
Elements Magazine 