The Colors of Pride []Lams[]

Chapter One: Red

Red: The blood of angry men, the color of desire.

He was loud. So very loud. When he spoke, his mother swore the heavens heard him above all. He found that hard to believe, especially when his mother died with him in her arms. He found that hard to believe when his cousin left him to fend for himself. He found that hard to believe when he was one of the only survivors of a hurricane. He wrote his feelings down in a storm of his own. How he found everything hard to believe. No one that read the papers would ever guess they were written by a boy of merely fifteen years. The words laced with fire danced about the pages in a heated tango, flaring it's dress and stamping its shoes. A dance of anger and passion. A dance of desire. A boy of fifteen years headed for New York City with twenty dollars in his pocket, finally found some truth in his mother's words when he stepped off the wooden walk way and into the arms of a family that had adopted him. The Revere family brought him in, and loved him, but can happiness last? No. Not for the boy that wrote like a hurricane and spoke like a thunderstorm. Not for the boy of red.

Black: The dark of ages past, the color of despair.

He was quiet. So very quiet. But when he did speak the world paused and all living things held their breath, simply to hear what the quiet boy would say. The boy had a way with words. He could craft an argument and defend it within minutes of receiving the topic. Yet the words laced with undeniable fact stayed hidden behind a mask of freckles and green eyes. But his hands could convey his feeling so much better. With a pen between his fingers, pressed against a paper, he could create worlds on a page. His friends swore he was a prodigy, but he would never admit it. His father wouldn't let him. The man with a hole in place of a heart and soul would never allow his son to participate in, or get recognized for anything that wasn't masculine. Art was feminine. But that didn't stop the sketch books from filling up, or the paintings from lining the walls of his club house. But could the tranquility of ignorance really last? No. Not for the boy who drew life with graphite and silently spoke the truth. Not for the boy of black.

Published December 22, 2016