Creative Writing Collection

Blue is a Man-Made Color

        It was hot. My body was hot. It also hurt. I opened my eyes, and I could see. There was white and blue above me, more blue than white and the white was slowly moving. I am slowly breathing. My chest rises, then falls; my sides expand than contact. Breathing my first breaths. I blink, then I rise. The land flattens out before me, tufts of green plants and standing saguaros everywhere. I blink more times, turn my head, see more greenery, then back forward again. It is quiet, but I feel soft wind against my skin. It feels better than the ground.

                       Expand, contract—blink.

        I take one step forth. The small rocks at my feet hurt, but I keep going anyway. Lift of the leg, forward movement of the foot, downward drop of the leg; repeat. Steps. I do not know where I am going, but I am going. Going… someplace. Somewhere. The saguaros and cacti stare at me as I go, always following me. The desert is quiet, but the wind causes them to speak in soft murmurs.

               “Look at that. That is not a saguaro. That is not a cactus. That is from the desert, but not one of us… One of us… One…”

       I repeat the word. “One,” I say to myself as I walk. My eyes do not look at the saguaros or the cacti, but they slightly look up to the great blue. “One.”

       Expand, contract—blink.

       There is no more desert, and I stop. There is a big grey line before me, running alongside the end of the desert. I stare at it, then I walk onto it. It is hotter than I am, but I stay standing. I look down, still. My feet are a light peach color. There are two feet—I have two feet. “Two.” There is a soft click, and I look up. There is an odd animal before me. It is large and green, soft looking as it comes to me. The metal it holds corrects my thoughts. Not an animal—human. Not just metal—gun.

       I do not move.

       Expand, contract—blink.

       I look away to my left, then back to the not-animal. The saguaros and cacti are stiff. They are scared. But I am not. My hand raises—one peach hand—and I hold it out to him. Above, there was the sound of air flying about angrily, sand and twigs and dirt and branches and small rocks and grass and leaves flying around. I did not look up, but I still looked at the green human before me. My hand out to them. Gun pointed to me.

       “Who am I?” One word added two more. More than one, more than two. “Three.” That’s how many. Three words. “Take me.” I point up to the angry wind. “Take me there.”

       Inhale, exhale—bang.