Day 103 of 365 Days of Writing Prompts: Incorporate as many things of one color as you can.
Erin: My friend always took Saint Patrick’s Day too seriously. He put on his full emerald suit. He turned his breakfast into green eggs and ham with some food die. Then he drank his morning shamrock shake. At work, he wore his olive colored glasses to make up for the people in the office who were not on “his level.” His desk was scattered with hand cut clovers and streamers of various shades of green. For lunch, he ate all of the foods he could match with his color scheme: Peas, string beans, cucumbers, granny smith apples, asparagus, pistachio pudding and spinach chips dipped in guacamole. After his work day was over he would go out to survive on green beer until he was lulled into a green wonderland dream coma. It was no wonder he always looked sickly green the next day when he came in.
Shannon: He was nearly the perfect man for me. His appearance was made up of all the features I usually swooned over: tall, dark hair, deep brown eyes. Check, check, check. Nice personality and a good sense of humor? Another check. So what’s his glaring flaw? Well, he has this primitive need to explore the great outdoors. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all about a person having a passion, but I wish I didn’t have to get dragged into his so often.
I get to spend the rest of the weekend in the middle of the cold woods with Caleb and his chocolate lab, Bruce. No camper, no electricity, and no plumbing. We’re roughing it. However, I don’t think I’m ever leaving my spot next to the fire as soon as he gets it started. I’ve burrowed into a blanket and I’m trapping Bruce by my side to try to suck up some of his heat, but Caleb just thinks I’m keeping him out of the way. “Want to do me a big favor,” he asks looking over his shoulder.
I sign to make him feel bad and to earn more girlfriend points. Bye, bye warmth. “I guess.”
“I need more wood for the base. The dirt is too damp. I can’t keep the flame going. Some dead leaves might help too,” he flashes a smile so won’t get angry about it.
Fine I grumble, getting up, “But as soon as I see a snake I’m out,” I warn as I take each step cautiously, trying to avoid the mud puddles.
“Like you’re out of here, you’re going home?”
“Don’t worry, just out of commission. You can’t lose me that easy,” I clarify as I accidentally step on soft ground. I try to pull my shoe out before it sinks in too far, but it’s too late. I’m going to be mess by the end of this.
What is going to be the color of your story?
Pelky Sisters 
Cobalt painted dripped in a shimmering pool at the base of the tombstone; had the liquid been any other colour, he would have simply seen a pool of grey paint. But it was a brilliant blue that was a stark contrast compared to the rest of his colourless world. In the distance, he could hear the grating laughter of a madwoman, dancing away in the crisp autumn air. Her tone was cheerful to the point of insanity and the way she gleamed at her work made his skin crawl uncomfortably. They were in a cemetery, after all.
As the woman, one of his college classmates, wandered through a thicket of teal trees shouting nonsense, he went back to studiously inspecting the headstones. Writing down interesting names was a lone-wolf hobby he’d picked up a few years back, along with doing etchings on the rough stone.
When he made his way around to the tombstone with paint smeared across the top, he paused to consider his options; pretend he hadn’t seen the paint, try to remove it himself, or find the caretaker and let them deal with the clean-up. Sighing aloud, he tugged his navy gym shorts out of his denim pack and carefully brushed away the dye as best he could, letting the bright colour soak into his clothes for no reason other than guilt. But, after dabbing at the grey stone for a few silence minutes, the colour refused to come off and he huffed in irritation. It was all because an irrational person had been here at the wrong time.
Clearing his throat uncomfortably and glancing around at the rows of still headstones beneath the pale blue sky, he muttered, “Hey, I’m sorry, uh,” he squinted at the name, dyed blue, before continuing, “uh, Irina. She’s quite mad, I swear. She didn’t mean anything by this, this silliness.” Grinning to himself, he dropped the heavy bag and leaned back against one of the pale trees, twirling an icy blue leaf between his long fingers. “And now I’m talking to no one. Well, this day just gets better and better.” As the leaf fell to the frozen ground, he toed the reminder of summer with disinterest. “Guess I’ll catch you later,” the tall gentleman mumbled as he whisked his bag from the ground and vanished into darkening daylight.
A few weeks later he returned in a navy blazer with a crisp plaid shirt underneath and a small bouquet of blue roses. Laying the odd flowers on the paint-stained memorial, he bowed his head respectfully for a moment. With no one in sight, he raised his eyes to the cobalt paint and the edges of his lips turned up. “So we meet again, Irina. I wanted to tell you about my family and why I picked the furthest-from-home college that would take me,” the lonely man began, sniffling in the brisk air. When he pulled a small notebook from his back pocket, the air stirred. “But, I figured it was only fair that I got to know a bit about you first.” This time, when he smiled at her, his whole face lit up.
“I learned you loved the colour blue, which is the only colour I can really see brightly; everything else is just a dull shade of grey. You were an only child, just like me.” As he read more, the one-sided conversation became more fluid and natural. Stumbling on the next bit, he dredged up what would have been a tearful part of the talk for Irina, “You died during childbirth. You were twenty-two and didn’t want a family. You just wanted someone to talk to.”
Silence filled the next half hour as he stood in the chilly breeze, hugging his blazer and journal close to his chest. “I wish I hadn’t been so cold to my family when I was with them. I don’t know how to talk to my mom and I don’t think my dad wants to see me again. I just need someone to listen; someone who’s not gonna tell me what I should do.” His blue eyes shone with sadness that froze halfway down his cheek like the realizations he was beginning to come to terms with. As the pre-winter wind rushed through the teal trees, he whispered to the stranger, “Thanks for listening,” and was gone again.
The blue boy visited Irina every few days for several months, in three feet of snow and in the middle of a terrible hail storm. For a while, she was the only stable thing he had in his life. After that time, he didn’t visit for a very long time in which the headstone crumbled away under the acidity of the paint. By the time he finally returned, Irina’s memory was almost gone. All that was left was a patch of strange blue roses that grew, inexplicably, in the middle of the fall.
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Created to Write:
It isn’t hard to tell which room is Leslie’s. Just about everything is blue.
Her sheets are blue. Her bedspread is blue. Her pillows are blue. Her dresser was white, but she convinced Grandpa Noah to help her paint it blue. Her floor is wood, covered in a blue rug.
The closet has blue curtains instead of doors. The curtains for her windows match. Things on the outside of her door are all blue, some even glow in the dark.
Her slippers are blue, her robe is blue. All her clothes have some variation of blue on them somewhere, and over half of her clothes are completely blue.
Her personal computer, given to her last Christmas, has a blue protector case and shell. Her backpack is blue. Her walls aren’t blue, yet. She’s negotiating. Everything on her desk is blue, whether bought that way or painted to be so. The lightbulb in her lamp can change colors, and it is typically set at either normal or blue.
The only thing Grandpa won’t let her paint is the desk itself, and the frame and headboard of her bed. So she covers the head and foot of her bed with a blue cover and puts stickers all over the desk to make up for it.
All. Blue.
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