Red Colors

“Red colors” are not a broad universal definitive statement; however, they denote a more specific notion.

Imagine a sword dancing from point A to B, parallel nodes that are about a meter apart. This anthropomorphized sword is no longer simply a sword. Neither are “red colors” simply “red” and “colors combined. Ideas are more than the combination and sum of their parts.

Given our full definition, let us turn our attention to a fiction passage that can help one adjust to the idea of “red colors,” not from a universal light, but from one that exists in a specific scenario, a vacuum, one that our wide-encompassing interpretation makes interconnected still.

The sound of barks were harsh, and there were flamboyant wings about. The night sky protruded into the morning, reifying a new day. This was placid, and it was carefully segmented for a perfect time—day after day, from day 1 to day 500. Whatever style of segmentation was employed, it did not discriminate and instead abounded in style and flavor. Such a world born out of its own without emerging as yet any better or worse than previous or following worlds invited the art of natural history. How this world occupied more than its own and its own space, but the very nature of what typified it as itself! It was what it was, insomuch that it could never be replaced and dismissed outright without an extensive and appreciative look at the “as-is“ of it.

From the scatter of a battle, a sword came upon the earth, immediately letting out fumes and puffs of smoke. Its magic was wearing thin in power.

Soon, the night skies faded once again and again, and many days passed.

In one such day, where the sky was clear and bright and its sunny rays were in full, a boy wandered about, happening upon the sword. “What swell day is shared to us!” he spoke with a triumphant expression, his hands fluttering about. Knowing the sword and its implications, he found it apt to remark: “Oh, by what most precise manner can we deliver this day, that in so doing might we share our triumph and find better yet days?” And when compared to the distance wherefrom the bird sounds and calls strewn about and the rustling of the trees and leaves blending in harmony were apparent, his voice was like a brass horn, whence could a looming darkness only be found, for the horn did more than a musical tone, being a forewarning rather of an approaching meeting of fates.

The boy picked it up, unable to lift it so as to bring it against his shoulder for easier carrying, for his shoulder allowed only a poverty of space. Moreover, the sword itself was physically cumbersome to him.

Simultaneously, back in his village, red colors were drifting about on the sun-dried earth like doves made to swallow the dust. Their texture were echoes of patterns, snipped portions that threaded the interspaces and harmonized the lines stitching them all.

Returning to the boy, he threaded along the terrain paths, unaware of what he was to see.

“Come and see,” the day beckoned him. “Your village… is burning.”

Skies reflecting on grotesque faces screaming in horror and horrific pain; their eyes bounced around in those heads. Their feet were tied to the ground upon tables’ collapse. The seats were distorted from their places, and the roofs were made into dough. The sky became a reddened sea of smoke, fresh blood spilling from the guts of bystanders whose faces were mirred in shock and whose movements were halted with magical skills. This was the Adventurer Raid.

Bandit-looking adventurers, taking revenge against the villages, hurried down, gliding past along the terrain, as the boy did with his triumphant smile back there in the forest glades, wherein the sun smashed recklessly into his face. But the boy did not know the sun’s warnings, nor did he know the adventurers’ smeared faces. The blood was pouring.

Apo Village was being slaughtered.

The boy was going to happen upon it, as he did with the foretelling inhibited sword. Time was slowing down, preparing for his eventual end. But his was fast, for he owned time and time him. But he was not in control, at least in relation to his family’s welfare. He liked chicken though, which mattered a lot to him, and he also enjoyed fried ones. But he wondered whether there would be chicken today just like yesterday, because he knew that he could only eat the delicious kind once a month or so. No one told him that, but he was sure it was. Also, he really wanted to show the sword already. He was starting to imagine a lot of scenes, where his family, friends, and everybody else who were also cool were there. He imagined the feeling of them. He then felt them.

He felt his last moments.

The world stopped him with a trip.

He was out cold, perfectly symmetrically caused to be this way.

Nights faded into new days, and the fog was growing increasingly further back, as the days were replaced with growing grasses instead of village affairs.

He woke up, a ball of magic that surrounded him disappearing, before he was going to notice.

He looked around. The silent, simple day and the foggy, blue-green expanse—with the mountains, large trees, outlines, blending colors, small plants, rocks, grasses, and various arrangements of thickets—stared back at him.

He got up, staring at the clouds. “Wow… such a sky so gray that it speaks to the spirits!” he said, retaining his usual splendor of speech.

But the quiet was getting louder.

He was staring, his gaze and head affixed still.

But a slight tilt of his head showed it.

He was aware.

Meanwhile, the sword from earlier watched him from the corner.