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Defendant pleads guilty on fourth case of being back on her bullshit. Welcome to Higurashi Month 2021!

Also, I'm not going to be including much if anything from Gou, because I don't like it very much. If you don't like that, do your own interpretations of the prompts. (Please do, by all means. The more the merrier!)

Also, the predominant colors of the Higurashi gang form the rainbow, and that is very neat.

June 1st, 2021

Keiichi was bright red. Passion, energy, health, blood –these were all things that described him well. At least, they did in Hinamizawa –the grey of those worlds where he did not come, the grey of the life he had lived before, all those were pushed aside in a vibrant burst of fiery red the moment he stepped onto the stage. He was red: shrieking, screaming, scarlet red, a red bright as holly and fierce as crimson, sharp as wine and glittering as ruby.

Rena was orange. Vigorous, eye-catching orange, something that could be dull and muted as rust or as lively as tangerine –that was Rena. Her orange was the shimmering burn of her copper hair, the cute parade of her carved lunch carrots, the feral sheen in her eyes that matched the glint of a roaring tiger. She was the foundation orange of terracotta clay, the hidden gem of amber, the sweet-sharp sting of raw honey.

Satoko was yellow. Bold, bright yellow –as fierce and shining as the sun, that was Satoko. Hidden behind clouds sometimes, but uncontainable, indomitable, eternal, enduring. She was a sharp sting of lemon and a bright burst of gold, the playful yellow of plastic toys in traps, the enduring yellow of any bright thing.

Satoshi was yellow too, but muted, quieter. His was the yellow of daffodils bobbing by the roadside: dusty and forgotten sometimes, cherished and admired in others –that was his yellow. A soothing, subtle yellow, like the fuzzy stripe on a bumblebee, or the flaxen waving of a field of grain. His was the yellow of home, a home he'd left and the home he desperately desired to come back to, sweet like butterscotch with a hidden, sharp pineapple sting.

Mion was green. A momentous green, the black-green of a thick forest of pine trees on an ominous mountain slope –old, storied, dignified, that was Mion. But like the valley between the portentous mountains, she hid a different kind of green, a softer, gentler, more vulnerable green, like moss along a stream. She was a green that unfurled like ferns to gentle coaxing, a glowing emerald green that radiated strength and courage to those she led, a cold and cleansing green like mint.

Shion was green. Life, healing, nature, safety –those things meant Shion. Perhaps not all these things in all her forms, all her worlds, but she was ever-green: sharp like chartreuse poison, bitter like lime, lovelorn like juniper, prickly but sweet. Her green was the green of sage, cleansing and strong, as powerful as a crocodile and as precious as jade.

Rika was blue. Sadness depression, despair, yes –but also depth, stability, loyalty, and wisdom. Her blue was as deep as the ocean and vast as the sky, the indigo of written scrawls and the cobalt of her ancestral hair. Her blue was of forgetfulness, of memory, of innocence and joy, precious as lapis and rare as a peacock.

Hanyuu was purple. So often associated with royalty, with power, with wealth and dignity –all things she frequently lacked. Hers was the soft purple of lilacs in rain, the shocking satin of violets, the kind of purple that was gentle and slow and twined with the world like so many things no longer were. But there was a deeper purple in her too, a bruise-purple that radiated pain from all these long years, an amethyst of truth that gleamed with power, a dark magenta world that she cradled in her bosom and used to receive her priestess after each cycle.

9.26 AM, USA Central Time