Random Fandom Shit Lit.

Orange [Heathers the Musical {Chandlmara}]

Orange like the dawn light, sleepy, subdued, gently unfolding, more yellow than red. Not quite sure what it should be, but creeping forward nontheless.

Sunrise orange, like the first strokes of friendship to begin their colour-coded escapades.

Yellow tentatively blending into red, two girls with identical labels and all the wrong similarities. Scribbling out in crayon tinged in the adjacent colour. Markers bleeding into each other.

Orange like a middle school lunch tray, too bright, gleaming plastic. Slippery and light but compact, solid. Flimsy, really.

Lunch tray orange, the color slammed onto linoleum floors and blue counters and Albert Hall's nose when he called Heather "crybaby".

Flashy for show.

Orange like the flowers in Mr. Keefers' yard, soft, fluttering, yawning up to the sky. Brief and beautiful, impermanent little blooms, easily crushed underfoot.

Begonia orange, all ruffles and tucks and swoops, bright and vibrant, popping enthusiasm, kind clumsiness. Makeshift bouquets, or impromptu hair accessories tucked behind an ear, amidst coiffed blonde curls and brushing bright, flushed cheeks.

Like the attention grabbing beginnings of a first love; a pathetic, precious, puppy crush.

Orange like the floaters strapped to their chests when Mrs. Chandler brought them along on a boat ride, the sea spray treading through their hair, the year Heather Duke almost slipped overboard.

(Heather laughed at that. Heather didn't, she scrambled over and made sure Heather was alright.)

Lifevest orange, the kind that also came in the form of rubber life boats, clunky but light, eye-catching blobs of color bobbing about the black waters of the Caribbean. The orange that keeps you afloat through late night phone calls, fingers twisted in phone cords and tongues tied through tears and minds blackened and wrangled by the skeletons in the walk-in wardrobe.

(Orange, the colour two girls made, but whoever said people had to have colours? Had to be one colour? Whoever said they couldn't blend into each other, regardless of how clashing, taint each other into a murky mess?)

Orange like sunset skies and fairytale sparks of lovers finding each other, like a day spent and retiring into quiet, like a wish on cotton candy clouds that were Heather's favourite colour, even if she would never admit it.

Sunset orange, more red than yellow, like some sort of smoothie, like a kiss shared underneath the staircase in secret, like the sun sinking into darkness and returning, like always, the next day in its steadfast loyalty, its promised constant.

The sun sinks or the sea swallows it up, tucked into its dark waters, where there's nothing orange but fish and corals, or maybe sunken, punctured lifeboats.

The sun sinks, and there's nothing orange in the night sky, not really.

And Heather, she never really did find out what kind of orange they were.

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I'm on a roll can you tell