The Color Red

Swinger's Floor

"You see that thing-" A man dressed in a flashy, silky, and free-flowing getup. Like the love child of a 1950's twenty-something, and disco maniac of the '70s. Dancing around in circles around the dance floor with the grace and swiftness of a ballet dancer at their peak. Moving with the speed and precision of a medical robot. Throwing around his partner and swinging her around like a whip. Both bodies moving in harmony around each other like a neutron and its flying electrons.

"Yeah, what is it? Do ya know-" words exchanging and seizing at the turn or flip of another beat. The music was blaring, coming from the corners of the studio. Drum lines and guitar strums, racing and racing, supporting their rhythm.

"No idea! The thing has me freaking out-" Not a sentence passed between the partners was concluded, though just like their harmonious movements; they received each other's messages as twins do with a sort of telepathy.

"I know. And it's so Red..."

Smoke Circle

"Yo pass that shit B." Five men sat on assortments of stools, stumps, and beanbag chairs, inside one of the men's basement. The room was small, any air that filled its space was now overrun with the scent of that magnificent herb that the men enjoyed. Their eyes sat low, their mouths locked in a grin that spoke volumes about their inner thoughts. The piece of rolled epiphany passed from hand to hand of each man. Puff, Puff, and Pass; the rhythm of their world, their space, their current positions.

"Y'all see that shit from down the block?" One of the five said as he inhaled his words and smoke from the blunt. Passing it to the next man.

"Man don't be thinking bout that, it be destroying our neighborhood. People be goin out to it, watching it. Everybody buggin if they thinking about getting near it. I ain't with that bruh." Another man said.

"Nah, you don't see it really then. That shit got my mind goin man, I wrote some shit bout it, that shit be blowing my mind." The first man said.

"Spit that then. Yo B start the beat." Another man began tapping his feet, banging the floor hard, the bass. His mouth working like a mixer, him mastering the sounds into coherent strings of beats. And the first man spoke to it.

"Elevate. Go high, go high, high enough to touch the moment.

Focus, hit that shit like the ground, and feel the potence.

Red, like the flag these G's be wavin, In the sky like the sun, where the heat be staying.

Wave nines at its stature, wave knives at its pasture, wave fines-like the pigs as masters.

Take me to it, its soul its guidance,

Speak the truth like it's prose, its vibrance.

That shit a masterpiece like the slave owner's gun, pow pow

That shit got our minds bouncing like it do, up down..."

"Good shit."

"Word." The men praised and eased into their next topic. The color and its presence held position no longer, at least for the moment.

"Man, pass that shit G..."

El Simposio de Moderno

The Wondrous red sphere made its way to the ears of the world's greatest thinkers. The object was hundreds of miles away, on some street of some small town in the middle of nowhere USA. Though this particular space was filled like Plato's texts foretold. Greeks, Europeans, Hispanics, Americans, Canadians, wise men. They spoke of the objects physical nature. It was rough and textured, it bounced endlessly. It could defy gravity for even a moment, it went up and down, in arches. It was a microcosm of everything the world was made of, its beauty, its structure like the creations of the Romans of Classical times.

The wise men spoke of its essence. How its color produced so many different responses. Hate, Anger, Love, Lust, Joy, Praise, Unrest, and Tranquility. How it was the key to discovering man further. How it taught us with no words about space and time. How it changed the world with its appearance, and how it will be the footstool to a future, to a new age. They drank to it, they spit on it, they analyzed it, they revealed in its simplicity.

The greatest meeting, documented since the philosopher Plato; even spoke about the sphere's master. How a child could wield such an enigma, can control it, understand it, and manipulate it. Some denounced the object's user. Some praised him, and analyzed him as well as if she were an extension of the Red Sphere.

It Is

It went high, and forwards, and backward, from the hand of the little girl that wore pigtails and a simple yellow dress covered in sunflowers. The object bounced on the concrete and soared to the light of the sun, feet above the girl's head, she lost sight of it. People stood and watched, family, strangers. Looking at this little girl, playing with her even smaller red ball.