Ooh, love the new drabble challenge.

Susan, you have e on the way. Loved the chapter, and am now frustrated because I don't know what happens to anyone!

First drabble on the Blue theme. A memory, from 1980.

A Memory of Peder

"What are you staring at?"

She jumps a bit. She hadn't realised she'd been staring, but she can't help it. Those eyes - they're amazing. They're ridiculous.

"You stared, at my eyes." His voice is as addictive as the rest of him, the liquid power of that Danish accent as aphrodisiacal as any Spanish Fly has ever been. Jesus. Six-four, built like a porn star, that voice, and those mismatched eyes? Too much. Not fair.

She actually flushes, embarrassed. He tilts her chin up toward him, smiling.

"Which eye do you like better," he asks, "the brown or the blue?"

Challenge #8 [blue]

It’s a lesson, the teacher said, about racism. I don’t know what that is. And Martin Luther King, but I don’t know him either.

My eyes are green, but that doesn’t count. Your eyes have to be blue for real to sit up front at story time and go to recess early. And the not-blues have to raise our hands for everything, even centers at free time. I feel like I’m in trouble, and my stomach hurts. The teachers won’t look at us, or even smile.

I said it’s not my fault about my eyes. She said that’s the point.

Oh, damn. Amy, that's brilliant.

Amy, I've heard of a variant on that exercise, where it's the blue-eyed kids who are segregated. I'm glad my schools were too reactionary to do things like that.

Yup, that was second grade, a public school in Delaware. It was so awful. I mean, later I got it, but at seven, not so much. Just this awful "What did I do wrong?" and "When is this going to end?" feeling, stomach tied in knots and on teh verge of tears pretty much all day. Even then, I remember thinking they were taking it too far, the teachers, in the not smiling, not even looking at us stuff.

Here's another, because I'm all about avoiding what I'm really supposed to be doing today.

Blue Challenge, Again

Why is it, “Are you blue?” Blue isn’t sad. Blue is the sky on a crystalline, sun-spangled day, clean as a watercolor. Blue is the ocean at noon, when the sand burns through your towel. Blue is the heart of a candle’s flame. Blue is the bottom of a rocket pop, the last sticky sweetness before the rough stick. Blue is a baby’s eyes, still new, untroubled, amazed. Blue is the smoke in a crowded bar, bass pulsing through the slippery floor and your body pressed up against his, heartbeat to heartbeat.

When I’m “blue,” I’m a sour, muddy green.

Susan, you have e on the way. Loved the chapter, and am now frustrated because I don't know what happens to anyone!

Got it, thanks! Will reply more fully later when I'm not moving at full gallop in an effort to make the June 1 postmark deadline for one of these contests.

Stay asleep, little baby....just 30 minutes more.....

Everyone quiet! Annabel's sleeping!

No problem, Susan. Fingers crossed for the contest...

Blue

"Hey, look at that! Creepy!" His hand catches mine and holds my fingernails up to the light. "Blue!"

I yank my hand back, embarrassed. "They just do that." Reflexively, I make a fist, try to get the blood flowing again, pump my hand open and closed.

No one else seems to even feel it, but the chill and damp is settling onto me, a familiar cloak. It wraps across my shoulders and down my arms, stiffening my bones.

I'm cold. I'm always cold. Surreptitiously turning up the heat, standing over the vent, wearing an extra sweater when everyone else is in short-sleeves, welcoming the blanketing humidity as it coaxes out the ache.

Blood is blue until it hits the air. I am always shocked when I cut myself and see that brilliant red. Nothing that fiery can possible flow through my body.

Tiptoeing into the thread, so as not to wake Annabel, I post a "Blue" drabble:

The walls were pale blue with the faintest hint of gray, between a conservative blue shirt and a blueberry smoothie. The room was one of 20 rooms: three laundry rooms, five baths, two kitchens. "That's just the color I need for my bedroom," she thought. She stared at the salvaged heart pine floors and the custom windows. "It's probably made from pigment ground from an endangered berry found only in the highest Andes."

She looked at the sunlight, the space, the fine woodwork. She didn't want the house. She didn't want the life it represented. She just wanted the blue.