The Ink In-Between: An Anthology

Green Is My Sin

PROMPT: Write a story under 1000 words that features a colour (ex. green). 

CW(s): Explicit and implicit racism, instances of microagression.

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Green.

Of all colours...

Why green?

"Isn't it obvious? It's the colour of money! An expensive woman, they say. Likes to make people think she's made of it. Money attracts more money, after all."

"Oh, please, don't be absurd. That's clearly Teal. You know, like the duck! I hear it's quite in vogue amongst those French friends of hers."

"Why should there be some complicated reason? Maybe the broad just likes green?"

"My dear, you don't wear the same green shade of dress at every party 'for no reason'."

"I heard she enjoys mint drops. Always sucking on them. You know... for all that kissing. That dress is sort of mint coloured."

"Yes... but you really have to squint at it!"

They all guffaw, sharing a good laugh at your expense. And I laugh too.

A part of me feels guilty about that.

Don't get me wrong, I can't claim any moral high ground here. I don't morally object to these jokes. How can I? When I often instigate them myself.

No. My guilt stems from weakness. Because none of these jokes are particularly funny or even clever, and yet I laugh along, like a stupid doll, because mother tells me people like you a lot more when you laugh at their jokes. Even the stupid ones. Specially the stupid ones.

But you're not like that.

When you laugh, you mean it. Some joke catches you off guard and you explode like green fireworks. You shake like a tree in a storm. Like a curtain drop, you fall upon us, and the whole room falls and shakes with you.

"What an ugly laugh. So ungainly and boorish, isn't it?"

"A man's laugh, some would say! I've heard these rumours, you see..."

"Oh, hush, you!"

"Yes, but must she make a scene every time?"

"I'd never laugh if I sounded like that."

Yet they all turn. They know that laugh. They smile and try to match your burst of laughter as you hang onto them like they're your only anchor out at sea. They catch you, search you, trip over their own words, desperate to know what made you laugh. Just so they can do it again.

You're like their shamrock. They want to keep you for good luck because wonderful, exciting things happen around you. Or you happen around them, doesn't matter, the result is the same. But you're not a plant that they can just stick in a pot.