So this colour thing has been going around Tumblr where you describe a color without using the name of that color, so I decided to write a little drabble on it. I can't use the words "Forest" or "Green."
Happy Holidays! Love, JT
He watched, tips of fabric-y artificial bush leaves hanging in front of his eyes as his hands gripped the red-brown porcelain flowerpot in front of him tightly. As his vision became unfocused the longer he watched, a deep, earthy color engulfed him.
He reminded him of the shining backs of beetles as they scrabbled around at his feet and scurried up tree trunks, wings opening and a brighter shade of color bursting as they reflected in the sun like emeralds. Or of the slippery sea kelp that tangled itself around his ankles, gently cutting into his soft flesh and seemingly pulling him under into the deep, murky salt water. It reminded him of the scales of the fish he saw through his snorkeling goggles when he bent to untangle himself, their delicate bodies slipping between his legs and arms and fingers. The contrast in colors when one especially large fish bit his finger and a thick, crimson fluid poured from the wound, to be instantly carried away by the rocking motion of the ocean. The color of summer leaves, of grocery shopping and passing through the aisle that sold fresh herbs. He could smell it – the rosemary, parsley, oregano, basil, mint, sage, thyme. It prickled at his nostrils, a gentle tingling sensation, slightly sharp and strong and pungent. It smelled of gardens and dirt and sweet, red apples he had picked once in a family orchard. It reminded him of the small twigs that got stuck in sheep's wool, the burrs that latched on to his jeans and shoelaces, the sharp sting of a wasp, or poking his thumb on a thorn while picking blackberries. The gentle breeze that rocks him to sleep on hot summer nights, the rustling of wind in leaves if he was extra quiet at three am, and when no cars passed by outside. He saw the slight tinge of color in the wings of magpies in Minnesota when the sun caught it at the right angle, the horn rimmed glasses of his second grade teacher, old pennies with their heads up he found on sidewalks no longer with their new, bronze finish. He felt the warm glow of lights by him during Christmas time, opening presents under the tree, stringing tinsel and hanging ornaments. It sounded like calming breaths by the sea, the not-exactly-silent silence as he lay looking up into the canopy of trees broken by dark sky littered with stars and fireflies. The waterproof material of the tent he slept in, the sound of rustling whenever he shifted in his sleeping bag. Empty rolls of hockey tape on the floor of the boy's messy change room, the silky, satin-like material of Kendall's sheets, Kendall's dark jungle like pair of Vans, the stripes on Kendall's dirty plaid shirts laying crumpled on the floor in the room they share.
He was everything to him – backs of beetles, climbing trees, slick kelp, sparkling fish, sharp teeth, minty fresh smell of herbs, picking apples, dull pain, silent nights, birds, spirit of Christmas, star filled skies, and lucky pennies. He focussed his eyes back on the blonde mop of hair laying unmoving on the foldable chaise lounge in front of him, and, slowly removing his tree hat, took a deep breath before stepping out from behind the shrubbery and straightening his shirt.